A Thousand Natural Shocks
by WDW
Summary: Thirty years ago, Stanley Pines made a deal. Now, in the wake of Bill's defeat and his brother's disappearance, Stanford begins to unravel Stan's dark secrets. Neverhuman AU
1. PROLOGUE

**Rating:** T

 **Summary:** Summer is over. In the wake of Stan's departure, Ford begins to unravel his brother's dark secrets. Stanley Pines gave up far more than thirty years to bring back his twin.

 **Notes:** Here's my contribution to notllorstel's amazing Neverhuman AU. Context can be gained from glancing through the Neverhuman tag on Tumblr, or this: Grunkle Stan is a creepy, green-eyed supernatural being.

Since the next official installment is coming out by the end of the week, I figured I should get this out before everything I've been theorizing gets jossed. This is just my interpretation of the AU based on the comics/ciphers posted!

(Also, I am a Pratchett fan. If anyone's wondering after this.)

I'm bad with updating, but I have most of the next chapter written. I'm going to try to be a responsible fic author with this fic and get future chapters done before I update, and I do have a pretty good idea of where this is going to go.]

* * *

PROLOGUE

Tongues of red and gold flame rose from the blazing wreck, briefly illuminating the dark night sky. Despite the intensity of the fire, however, it did not spread; it sputtered and died against the dark tree trunks. It desperately consumed the branches and shards of wood that littered the forest ground, but to no avail. If not for the remaining gasoline in the car acting as fuel, the fire would have died within minutes.

A solitary figure stood at a safe distance from the disaster, staring at the conflagration with visible dismay.

"Fuck," he muttered, dragging one hand through his hair. "Fuck. I can't believe the bastard did that to my car. How the hell did Rico track me all the way here?"

MYSTERIES OF LIFE, I SUPPOSE.

"Yeah… Geez, shoulda known from the start that the guy was bad, but going after a man's car?" The figure sighed. "Guess I'm just lucky that I got outta the El Diablo in time. For a second there, I thought-"

The realization came in steps. "…Oh. Oh, no."

YES.

"Dammit, no, no, no. Not now. It's a mistake, I swear, you've got the wrong guy - "

THERE ARE NO MISTAKES.

"You don't get it! I - I need more time. My brother, he's still on the other side of h-his dumb nerd project. I need to get him back –"

THERE IS NO MORE TIME.

"There has to be," the figure gritted out through clenched teeth. "…I'll make a deal. I don't care what it costs. I'll do anything. _Please._ "

I DO NOT MAKE DEALS.

He sucked in a breath. "I - Whatever. You ain't taking me, ya hear? I'll – I'll fight you. I gotta warn ya, I have a mean left hook – urk!"

The figure clapped a hand over his left shoulder with a gasp of pain, eyes wide. "S-Shit, what the hell was... This is fightin' dirty, I'm telling ya –"

There was a pregnant, thoughtful pause. THIS IS NOT MY DOING.

"Yeah, play another one, would ya? Tryin' to con a conman –"

He gritted his teeth and fell to his knees as another flash of pain lanced through his being. "…I'm not a genius or anythin' like that, but dead people ain't supposed to, uh, feel pain, right?"

HM.

"…An answer would be nice, y'know."

GOOD-BYE, STANLEY PINES. WE WILL NOT MEET AGAIN.

"What?" He forced his head up. "Wait, the hell does that –"

His companion had gone. The flames of the wreck had finally died out, exhausted.

The night was dark again, and this was when he noticed the eerie green glow that emitted from the brand on his left shoulder.

"This - ?"

Dozens, hundreds of eyes opened as one, decorating the dark forest expanse around him like sickly green lights. Six of them swiveled and pinpointed him with uncomfortable accuracy.

 **WE CAN GIVE YOU MORE TIME**


	2. Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Ford wrote furiously in his journal, valiantly trying to ignore the sound of voices from outside his home.

The keyword here, as had become increasingly common for him, was 'try.' The dozen or so feet and thick wooden wall did very little to muffle the voices of his grand-niece and nephew, as they loudly bid adieu to the town that they had spent their summer exploring, understanding, and ultimately, saving.

The - attempted - end of the world had indeed come before the end of summer. This time, however, Bill's plans did not come to fruition. Through quick-thinking, courage, and indeed, not just a small amount of good ol' fashioned luck, Pines family managed to seal off the dimensional rift and cast Bill Cipher out of this world – for once and for all.

It had… turned out much better than Ford would have ever imagined, or even hoped. No deaths, no injuries, no one driven into crippling insanity (don't think about fiddleford-) which meant that both Mabel and Dipper would return home much the same as they had left it – physically, at least.

Even from the short weeks that he had been acquainted with the twins, Ford knew that both children had underwent their fair share of personal growth over these few months. Dipper had learned many of the lessons concerning knowledge and power that Ford himself had learned decades earlier, albeit much different (much worse) circumstances. Mabel, on the other hand, had been forced to reconcile some of her more idealistic notions with reality, a nugget of knowledge that Ford wished that he didn't have to be manipulated by a triangular dream demon in order to gain himself.

Yes, over the past few weeks, he had grown very fond of those two. He had become used to Mabel's casual acceptance of the strange, Dipper's insatiable thirst for knowledge – and so, Ford was very sorry to see them go.

Which made it all the more galling that he had to stay inside, curtains drawn, hidden from sight, as the children prepared to return home.

Of course he could understand the reasoning behind the decision. He had made the decision, even – Ford knew very well that the appearance of two Stanford Pines' would mark nothing but trouble for everyone involved. But in the end, the reason why he could not even venture out from his own home for fear of discovery…

The slam of a car door jarred him temporarily out of his thoughts. "Have a good trip home, kids!" He heard. "But, remember – if you see the cops in the rear mirror, hit the gas! They can't book you if they can't catch ya!"

Ford gritted his teeth. That reason was standing half a dozen feet from the door.

That reason had stolen his identity, besmirched his name, and had taken thirty years of his life from him – three decades that he could have spent advancing his chosen field of quantum physics, years that he could have spent with his family. He could have went to his parents' funerals. He could have watched his younger sister grow up.

Anything but the hellish decades he had spent scrabbling to survive in the other dimension.

(He's your family, too, said the little voice in his head, from a spot once occupied by a far more foreign entity. He gave up three decades of his life to bring you back -)

But that was over now. Stanford Pines was back in his home dimension, and… he would make things right. He would get his identity back and clear his name. He would do what he could for Fiddleford – it was the least he could do, given his role in the man's insanity. He would make sure Stanley –

"See you next summer, Grunkle Stan!" Came Mabel's loud cheer. Ford froze. "You better hug it out with Grunkle Ford before we come back and visit – because if you two are still grumping at each other next summer, I'm gonna make a giant 'hug it out' sweater and make you guys wear it!"

Stanley's reply was far less audible. For a conman, he had never been a good liar – not to his family. "…Yeah, yeah. Well, all I gotta say is… sweaters aren't exactly my thing." A brief pause. "So, guess I'll have to make sure ya don't have to make me wear one, huh?"

Mabel screamed in joy. Ford shook his head, irrationally glad that, at least for just a while longer, the twins wouldn't know the truth. He wouldn't have to explain to the children why he had to eject their beloved Grunkle Stan from the Mystery Sha– from Ford's home.

Just as well, because he wasn't even sure how to explain that to himself.

Weeks ago, when Ford had been fresh out of the portal, still reeling with the realization that after thirty years, he was back, there had been no doubt about this course of action. Stanley had stolen his name, his home, his life. The man might have worked to bring him back to this dimension, but it was because of his own heady guilt that he did so.

Well, that debt was paid. Ford didn't owe anything more to his twin. Stanley had to find his own path in the world – a path that shouldn't at all converge with Ford's.

But since then, Ford's adamant beliefs had been shaken. It had become clear that the bond between twins was not so easily broken, as demonstrated by both Stanley and himself. As much as Ford wanted to believe that Stanley had done all that he did out of pure selfishness, not even he could be so blind. Stanley had wanted Ford's approval and acceptance just as much as Ford, very deep down, wanted his.

He was wrong about his twin. Ford just wasn't sure how he was going to admit it.

But he couldn't shy away from it forever.

Distantly, he heard the revving noises of a car driving away. A minute later, the door to his home cracked open, and his brother stumbled in, back bowed, eyes suspiciously moist.

"Stanley," Ford said, and set down his journal. "Mabel and Dipper are gone, then?"

Stan startled at the sound of his voice, but straightened immediately, his frown transforming into a wide grin as he whipped around to face his twin, no sign of his previous weariness evident on his frame. Ford wasn't so easily fooled, however.

"Yeah, the kids are off to California. Things are gonna get a lot quieter without them, huh?" Stan paused, evidently aware of his slip of tongue. "Ah, I mean –"

"Stanley…" Ford shook his head with a sigh. "About that… We really need to talk."

His twin paled. "Uh…"

"I… heard you talking to Mabel, outside."

"…Son of a –" Stan muttered to himself. "Okay, fine. Yeah. Don't worry, I'm not gonna tell them about the whole, uh, throwing me out thing. That's one thing you can trust me not to do, by the way," he added with an underlining of self-deprecation, "I won't do anything that would hurt those kids."

"No, ah - That's," Ford hesitated. "That's not what I mean. Stanley, about what I told you all those weeks ago – right after you saved - right after I got out of the portal –"

"Geez, it's fine, Sixer. I get it, you –"

"That's not what I –"

Both men stopped at the same time. "I know," said Ford carefully, hesitantly, "that Gravity Falls has been your home for the past thirty years. I understand that you are reluctant to leave it."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Stan scoffed unconvincingly. "Look, Poindexter, you know me – I'll be fine anywhere. I did just fine those ten years, remember that?"

Ford had his doubts about that, especially considering the bedraggled, half-starved state in which Stanley had arrived at his home all those years ago. "Stanley, we both know that's not true," he sighed.

Stan tensed. "I can look after myself."

"You were living out of your car, Stanley –"

"I'm doing fine now, aren't I?"

"After thirty years of living under my name, living in my house, living with my identity, yes!" Ford gritted out.

Why did Stanley have to be so stubborn? He had seen how much his brother loved this town and the people in it, despite his constant grumbling about the stupidity of its citizens. Seeing Stanley performing to his audience in the Mystery Shack… it was the happiest Ford had seen his brother since their father had thrown Stanley out of the house.

"So this is how it is, huh?" His brother muttered darkly, and Ford realized suddenly that he might have said the wrong thing. "Look, Poindexter. Your name, the Mystery Shack, all your nerdy books and all that paperwork – they're all yours, alright? I don't want them – I don't need to be you to be successful. Hell, I don't – don't need you at all," he added, albeit somewhat unconvincingly.

Ford stood up and stepped forward hesitantly, one arm outreached. "Stanley –"

His brother stepped back. "Hey, I'll be outta your hair soon enough." Stan sighed. "Look, if you want, I can rent out a room for tonight, alright? I know a place in town –"

"For God's sake – " Ford spluttered, shaking his head. "No, you knucklehead, I'm not telling you to leave!"

The silence that prevailed after that exclamation was almost embarrassing.

"You, uh, what?" Stan blinked, clearly shocked, and cleaned out his ear with his little finger. "Gimme a sec, Sixer, I think my hearing aids -"

"There's nothing wrong with your hearing aids, Stanley." Ford sighed, unsure of just how to continue. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he had been able to talk easily with his twin – nowadays, it felt as if every conversation had become a minefield, littered with the hidden grievances of four decades of separation.

"Look, Stanley… It's obvious that you have made your own place, here in Gravity Falls. I'm not going to force you out of it." He attempted a weak smile. "Now, I'm not going to say that I'm particularly pleased that you turned my home into a roadside attraction… but I'm sure we can work something out. Most of my work is contained underground, after all, and I suppose…"

His brother stared at him, eyes wide behind his glasses, inexplicably pale. Ford hesitated slightly, confused and slight daunted by the lack of response – but forged on with determination.

"Though, I do want my name and identity back. But I'm sure we can figure out a way to explain your, ah, 'fiery death.' I'm not sure how exactly you faked your death, but without records of an identifiable body, it shouldn't be a problem to, ah, make our own alterations –"

Stan made an odd wheezing noise at that.

Ford hesitated, unsure how to react to the interruption. "Stanley?"

"…You really thought this all out, huh? And here I thought – Damn it, Sixer." Stan shook his head, an odd, pained smile on his face. "You reallyhaven't changed a bit from when we were kids, have you?"

"Stanley –"

"C'mon, it's been a long day," Stan said quickly. "Let's not deal with this now. We'll have plenty of time to, uh, figure this out tomorrow… Right? Sixer?"

Ford hesitated. "Well, I suppose –"

An artificially wide grin pasted itself on Stan's face, fooling absolutely no one. "Great! Uh, I'll just –"

Without a single word further, he turned his back and practically fled towards the direction of his room. Ford could do nothing more than stare, half a conversation's worth of rehearsed reconciliation tasting like ashes on his tongue.

This… had not been part of any of the dozens, hundreds of scenarios that Ford had ran through his head since he had made that final decision, had forced himself to confront the reality that he did not, in fact, want his twin to leave – not again. Perhaps he had been overly optimistic, but he had not expected Stanley to react so… strangely to Ford's offer.

Surely, Stanley would be pleased at the prospect of staying in Gravity Falls? The twins might be gone, but Ford was not blind enough to see that his twin's family extended to far more than blood relations.

Ford let out a sigh, and turned away from the spot where Stanley had last been. He should have learned by now that any conversation between him and his brother… was not going to end well. With the immediate threat of Bill gone, he had hoped – never mind that.

And yet.

* * *

They closed the door with their shaking hands.

Time was up.


	3. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Admittedly, Stanford Pines wasn't the best sleeper, even before the whole fiasco with Bill. His insomnia had served him fine in college, where it was practically the norm. On the especially bad nights when pure excitement and passion would keep Ford up all night long, Fiddleford would brew him a carafe of dark coffee in the morning, with no cream and perhaps just a little too much sugar to be healthy – just the way he liked it.

His eyes practically boring holes in the ceiling above him, Ford suddenly found himself nostalgic for the past.

When had everything changed?

When he found Stan's snack bag next to his malfunctioning project, and realized with dawning horror just how far his twin would go to keep them together? When their father had thrown Stan out of the house, and Ford had been too inflamed with rage and indignation that he couldn't even look his twin in the face? When Fiddleford had stormed out of the lab, wild-eyed, shouting damnation and destruction?

In fact, he suspected, but would never admit, that his almost life-long insomnia might have stemmed from his never getting used to the absence of loud snoring from the bunk bed just above him.

In the weeks after his return from the portal, that sound was a lifeline of normality for him, even though it had been forty years since he had last heard it so regularly. But now -

Ford sat straight up, a cold pit opening where his stomach should be.

For the first time since he returned from the portal, he couldn't hear Stanley's loud snores, usually easily permeable through the wooden walls.

Which meant –

It takes him mere seconds to put together the pieces, but the realization still floors him when it hits.

He should have _known_. Stanley, the stubborn _idiot_ \- no wonder his brother had been so adamant on waiting another day.

But, why would Stanley _want_ to –

Ford shook off that line of inquiry. He did not understand his twin; that was something he had to accept. After seeing Mabel and Dipper's relationship, he had to wonder if he ever did.

The door to Stan's bedroom was unlocked and easily opened, but it was as Ford had feared.

His brother was gone, had somehow left while Ford was distracted by the skeletons in his closet – gone, without even attempting to talk anything out.

Without missing a beat, Ford turned on his feet and ran for the front door, suddenly very thankful for his habit of sleeping in his day clothes.

The night was cold, dark, and quiet. The disappearance of Stanley's car from the driveway was damning.

Judging by the fresh tire marks on the loose gravel of the driveway, Stan hadn't been gone for long. Nevertheless, short of running on foot and picking a random direction, there was nothing he could do. Even if he could gain access to a vehicle at this time in the night, he had absolutely no idea where his brother was headed.

Ford swore colorfully, dragging a hand through his hair, then again with increased volume.

With a sense of defeat, he trudged back into the house, cursing any and all gods out there in the multiverse for Stanley's ridiculous stubbornness. No doubt, his brother had taken some kind of offense to something he had said, and ran from his problems instead of staying to work them out.

Typical. Just _typical_.

It was only after Ford slumped down into a nearby chair, that he noticed the single piece of paper on the kitchen table. His brother had left some kind of note. He eyed it balefully, as if ignoring it would make it disappear along with the past fifteen minutes.

A moment later, he sighed and reached for it anyways. He was 58 years old – he couldn't afford to be so immature about his problems, not anymore.

Perhaps, Stanley had the prescience to at least leave some kind of contact information. True, he might ignore Ford's calls, if he truly insisted on acting a quarter of his age. But once the kids returned to California, Ford could call and _mention_ that their Grunkle Stan was taking an extended vacation to avoid working their issues out.

Knowing his grand-niece, it would take less than a day for Stanley to be standing sullenly on the doorstep, being shouted at by a twelve year old girl armed with a military grappling gun.

Ford smiled fondly at the thought. Yes, if Mabel had any idea that Stanley had gone, there would be – excuse his French – hell to pay.

Then he read the note, and the smile disappeared from his face.

It was written in Stanley's distinctive, blocky handwriting – impeccably neat and easy to read, which had, in their childhood, contrasted greatly with Ford's own unnecessarily stylized cursive. The strokes were shaky, however, and Ford found himself uncomfortably reminded of just how old he and his brother had gotten. But the contents itself…

…made no sense. Ford squinted, and adjusted his glasses.

 _Ford,_

 _Thanks for the offer_. _Between the two of us… you always had the best ideas. But_ , and then, separated by several scribbled words out, _it's not gonna work for this. Just,_ a blotch of ink, _trust me, Poindexter._

There was no elaboration. Ford raised an eyebrow.

 _The twin thing we had about not going through each other's stuff? Consider this permission to do whatever you want with the stuff in_ _the_ _Shack_ _your house. Phonebook's in the second drawer to the left – bunch of numbers in there, if you need help with getting your identity back._

 _Shermy's in there too. You,_ a smudge of ink _, should talk to her._

There was a small puddle of ink at the end of the last letter, as if Stanley had been momentarily distracted. Then, thin and streaky, as if scrawled down before he could change his mind, _Twelfth floorboard from the door, my room. Couldn't risk Dipper and Mabel –_ everything else was scribbled out.

 _Don't tell them. They don't have to know about –_ another series of scribbled out words. _Don't do anything stupid, Poindexter._

Another scribbled out word, then simply, _Sorry._

Ford put the piece of paper down slowly, a cold sensation going down his back. No contact information. No hints at where Stanley had gone, or _why_. Ford had experience with the cryptic, but this was ridiculous.

And… perhaps, if he had been less experienced with the supernatural, he would be able to convince himself that there was nothing strange about the note.

But there was something… indescribably _sinister_ about the whole thing, and Ford couldn't stop the electrifying jolt of panic that drove all lethargy from his limbs. He wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight, it seemed.

What had his brother gotten himself into…?

* * *

The car rolled to a stop. The parking brake was pulled, almost as an afterthought. He opened the door, and stepped out with a groan.

This was hardly a conventional parking spot, and they had mowed down thirty years of new growth in order to get to this exact spot in the forest. But he had needed a place where people wouldn't go – the last thing they needed was for an abandoned vehicle to be reported, to either Ford or the kids. They weren't sure which would be worse.

He drove a hand through their hair with a sigh. "Hell," they said to himself, "…We really screwed it up, huh?"

He had been telling the truth – they had never been the twin with the good ideas. This was probably on the par with the Stan-vac with how ill-thought it was, but… what other choice did he have?

If the kids found out… Stanley wasn't sure what he would have done. Ford… as much as they didn't want him to know, there was no way his brother could keep his nose out of the latest mystery.

And when he did find out the truth…

 _How much longer can you keep up this act,_ Stanley _? You're good – but not_ that _good. I've_ been _in Stanford's mind – I know him better than his own twin!_

 _Though…_ that _doesn't mean anything to_ you _\- does it, Six-Sights?_

They swallowed. Cipher might have spouted more lies than truth. But he had no reason to lie when the truth worked towards his benefit.

The demon had been right, all those years ago. He couldn't have kept it a secret forever – not if they had stayed. Hell, they suspected that the only reason Cipher hadn't outed them was because the alternative would have been much more fun for him.

Cipher was gone, banished from this realm along with his allies from beyond the rift. But Stan's greatest enemy had always been himself.

Ford would react the same, no matter what they told him. Better he found out on his own.

But this way… Dipper and Mabel wouldn't have to know – and that was what mattered the most.

He placed his fez on the hood of the car with trembling hands.

The forest lit up briefly with pale green light. When it died down, they were gone.


	4. Chapter 3

Notes: Update was a while in the waiting, I know - if it's any solace, this chapter is quite a bit longer than the past I've posted. Sorry about all that. I have a relatively comprehensive plan of the entire fic so far, I just have to find time to sit down and write it out.

Introduced in this chapter is Shermy Pines - a bit necessary, since I didn't want this entire fic to be Ford and his internal monologues. Seeing how their character barely exists in canon, any iteration of them is pretty much an original character. But here, I'll be going with Sarielle's Shermy, who's Dipper and Mabel's grandmother, and who kicks all kinds of ass, honestly. No background knowledge is necessary (but y'all should check their fics on AO3, because they are amazing) but just giving credit where it's due.

* * *

CHAPTER 3

The cold fear coiled in his gut promised a sleepless night.

Never one to waste time, Stanford Pines cracked open his brother's phonebook and began flipping through the yellowed pages, in a vain attempt to keep his mind off of certain other topics.

There was no point in wondering where, when, and above all, why Stanley had gone. As things were, there was nothing Ford could do to change his present solution. First, he needed to get his identity back - and more specifically, clear his name. Incarceration was not his main concern - he had spent a significant portion of the past thirty years in some kind of alien prison. But he would damned if he was to be arrested on charges of _llamacide_.

His current task did little to distract him from his wandering thoughts, however. It was clear that Stanley had accumulated a large number of contacts over the past three decades, but the names and numbers meant nothing to Ford. There were cryptic notes scrawled near certain contacts, but they elicited nothing more than mild bemusement. Pug smuggler?

It took mere minutes for the names to start to blur together, and this came from a man used to deciphering millennia-old demon summoning incantations, written in languages lost to mankind. _Park. Palmer. Pan._ Pendragon raised an eyebrow. _Price. Pines. Pitt. Pinckney_ -

 _Pines._ Ford blinked, and flipped back a page. Ah, yes. _Shermaine Pines (Shermy)_ , written in neat letters, surrounded and almost entirely covered by scrawled notes. Following it was a whole collection of other Pines, most of them completely unfamiliar. _Dipper and Mabel's parents_ , was written next to one number, and Ford subconsciously averted his gaze.

Yes, that was right. Stanley had made mention of Shermy, but with the distraction that came with the rest of the note, contacting her had slipped his mind entirely.

Ford remembered her, of course, even though it had been much more than three decades since the last time he saw his younger sister. She had been a five year old child then, and wasn't it strange to think that his baby sister was now a grown woman - a grandmother, even? If not for the familiarity of Mabel's wide grins and Dipper's defiant stubbornness, he would have found that impossible to believe.

Her name drew surprisingly vivid memories - Ford had thought the past thirty years had robbed him of most casual recollection of his previous life.

But they were meaningless - the person that Shermy was now, was in probability… a different person entirely. His baby sister had grown up into a stranger in the decades he had spent trapped between dimensions. Those were years he could never get back.

Yes, Stanley had brought him back through the portal. But what did he bring him back to?

Before all of this, Stanford Pines had been destined for a bright future. His research was promising - he could have made groundbreaking discoveries and elevated mankind to unprecedented heights. His whole life had been spread out in front of him, and what a life it was! With Fiddleford by his side and Gravity Falls positively teeming with mysteries to explored -

Could haves, would haves. All that possibility, all that potential - they were all lost now.

At best, he was now a laughingstock among his former peers. Fiddleford was recovering, but he had spent decades as a lunatic living on the very edges of society and lost even more than Stanford had. Ma and Pa had passed years ago, and Ford had never gotten the chance to say good-bye.

In this world, Stanford Pines was without friends, future, and with the exception of two - three people - family.

Yes, it was true that Ford had made his own… unfortunate decisions. He should have listened to Fiddleford's warnings. He should have never trusted Bill - that had been made very, very clear. But he had made up for that particular mistake… sufficiently, he felt.

But it hadn't been Bill who had taken three decades of his life from him, and expected thanks in return.

In the end, Ford had not wanted Stanley to leave. But that did not mean that he had truly forgiven his twin.

He wasn't sure he ever could.

And now, Stanley wanted him to talk to Shermy, the baby sister that time and separation (and, however indirectly, Stanley himself) had turned into a complete stranger.

Ford's first instinct was to refuse. All he had to gain from the phone call was heartbreak and the saccharine sentimentality that was his anathema - and that was if his sister even believed his story.

Really, why would she? Thirty years of disappearance, identity theft, faked deaths - it sounded like a plot straight out of that ridiculous duck show his brother was obsessed with.

But reality hit like a freight train. Shermy was quite possibly the only person alive who had known both Stanley and Stanford Pines - the only person who knew the differences between them. It was inevitable that she would stumble across this deception, and there was no telling the consequences when that happened - for everyone involved.

He dialed the number, for that reason only.

This was the logical decision, the best for everyone involved. Really - Ford certainly didn't expect to find some kind of familiarity, some kind of normality, in talking to someone who - who might as well be a complete stranger. There was no reason to believe that Shermy had not changed completely.

( _So why did he_ still -)

His hand clenched on the phone. It took several minutes for the other line to connect. During that time, Ford had already regretted his decision half a dozen times.

The voice that broke the static was female, flat with disbelief, and completely unfamiliar. "Alright, who the hell is this?"

Ford paused, momentarily disorientated. This… He squinted at his brother's handwriting - perhaps he had misread one of the smudged numbers. "I, ah, apologize. I think I… might have the wrong number -"

"…Wait, Ford?" There was a brief, significant pause. "Is that you?"

He floundered for a few seconds. Shermy? But Shermy did not sound like the grandmother she was supposed to be - but then again, she _would_ be relatively young for a grandmother, wouldn't she? But… how was it possible that she remembered him? She had been so young when Ford had gone into the portal -

Ah.

It became suddenly, uncomfortably clear - she thought he was Stanley. His brother really had assumed his identity, in every possible way. Ford wasn't sure how to feel about that. "I - Is this Shermai - Shermy? Shermy Pines?"

"…Ford, what the hell?" There was a shuffling noise. "Look, the only reason I'm not reaming you out for drunk dialing me at 3 AM in the damn morning is because -" A pause. "Oh, crap."

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Is - Is it today? It is, isn't it. You wouldn't be drunk off your ass if it wasn't - "

It had been a while since Ford had felt so lost in a conversation. "What is today?"

An aggravated exhale of breath. "You _know_ what, Ford. I've been telling you for years that you can, y'know, _talk_ to me instead of stewing in your own misery. At least you're not doing this with the kids still in the house -"

"I am not intoxicated," he protested.

"You're a shit liar, Ford," she said flatly. "Look, I can't pretend that I can completely understand how it felt for you to lose Stanley, but he was my brother too. Besides… I thought we've moved past 'denial' by this point. We both know _perfectly_ well why you're doing this."

"To lose Stanley - ?" The dots connect. Right, Stanley would have had to mourn for himself in order to keep up his deception. It seemed that he had been a tad… fervent in holding up his pretense.

"Are you talking about the, ah -" Ford had to think momentarily to remember what Stanley had said his story had been. "The car crash?"

There was a long silence, and Ford worried suddenly that he had misspoke. When Shermy spoke again, her voice was deathly serious. "Stanford, are you alright? …Hit your head on anything?"

"I am perfectly _fine_ ," he said, just a tad curtly. Rather understandable, considering he hadn't had a hold on this conversation since it had begun.

"Sure. Alright, whatever you say. You do remember the voicemail you left me a few days ago, right? I'm pretty sure that was the definition of, 'not fine.'"

Stanley. Stanley had left Shermy a voicemail, a few days ago - which, outside of Bill's time stasis, meant the day or two leading up to the Weirdmageddon. It was… _convenient_ timing, which Ford could mark up to coincidence if not for a lifetime of experience.

He gripped the receiver tighter. This voicemail could be the key to finding his brother. "What did he - I say?"

"Ford?"

"What was in the voicemail?" Ford asked again.

"…This is not helping your claims of sobriety, Ford."

"Shermy, this is important. Just… answer my questions. I understand that they may seem… ridiculous, but I can explain afterwards." Ford let out a sigh. " _Please._ "

His sister was silent for a moment, clearly shocked. But hesitantly, she said, "You apologized for taking away my brother."

Ford sank into his chair. "What?"

When Shermy spoke again, her voice was low. "Look, Ford. I've told you again and again, but … damn it, for someone so smart, you have a ridiculously thick skull. What happened to Stanley wasn't your fault, alright? I never blamed you. Neither did Ma and Pa - hell, I'm pretty sure they blamed themselves."

He didn't reply, too consumed by his whirling thoughts. What was Stanley apologizing for? The most obvious possibility was that his brother felt guilt for pushing him into the portal - and a small part of him said vindictively, _good_. But when followed to the logical conclusion, it didn't make sense -

"I used to think they were right, y'know. Pa was the one who kicked him out. Do you know the survival rates of teenagers on the streets? It's a miracle that Stanley… even got as far as he did," Shermy said bitterly. "I never even got to meet him. Not until the funeral. Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?"

\- because at the time of the voicemail, Ford had already returned from the other side of the portal. In fact, Ford had already been back for weeks at that point. The timing simply did not line up.

Unless Stanley knew what was coming.

The realization shocked Ford right out of his thoughts, and he found that he could not tune out Shermy's words any longer.

He… had never considered, really, the fact that Stanley had never met his younger sister - Shermy had been a baby when… well.

"Sherm, I -"

"But… Ma and Pa lived with that guilt for the rest of their life," she continued, cutting him off. "You weren't home most of the time, but… Ma cried a lot. She shouted at Pa. She blamed him for what happened to Stanley, and… well, it's hard to tell with Pa, but I think he blamed himself too."

Shermy let out a sigh. "You have to learn to _forgive_ , Ford. Else, you'll be carrying this burden with you for your whole life. Sometimes, that's the only way you can fix things. Stanley's not coming back, Ford."

The irony of the moment hit him all at once, and he had to stifle a bark of laughter. For what he had to do next, he needed Shermy to trust him - and if nothing else, Ford had learned that maniacal laughter was not a sign of a well-adjusted mind.

"…About that. Shermy, remember when I said I would explain these questions?"

"Yeah, Ford?"

Ford paused, steeling himself. "Stanley's alive, Sherm."

The other side went silent, but there was no clicking sound to indicate that his sister had hung up. Ford pressed on. "It's… a very long and complicated story. But Stanley faked his death, thirty years ago. Since then, he -"

"How?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Ford, how did he fake his death?"

He racked his brains trying to remember his brother's explanation to Dipper and Mabel. "He cut the brakes on his own car, I believe. There was a flaming car crash - much of the identifying evidence was destroyed in that, so Stanley was able to be legally declared dead without a body -"

"There was a body in the car, Ford."

Ford blinked. "There _was_ a-"

"Look, Ford. It's not that easy to have someone declared dead - not without their remains."

The phone receiver hung loosely in Ford's hand. He stared into the distance as he tried to comprehend Shermy's revelation. "Are you sure?" Ford asked weakly.

"…Yeah. Ma and Pa went to identify it. There… was a lot of damage, I think. The funeral was closed-casket. Dammit, Ford. You were there - how do you not remember this?"

A great deal of physical damage. Closed-casket funeral. And Ford knew, for certain, that his brother was alive. Meaning…

…How identifiable was a severely burned body? Especially for a grief-stricken couple who hadn't seen their son in a decade.

The only conclusion that Ford could make, turned his stomach. But really, it explained everything - why Stanley felt the need to run, what he hadn't wanted Ford to tell Dipper and Mabel. The body used to fake Stanley's death was not his, obviously.

But whose body did he use - and, what had Stanley done to get it?

"Shermy," he said slowly. "There's something I need you to look into for me."

* * *

 _Gravity Falls, August, 1982_

"You want - " A pause. "...Actually, I dunno what that means."

They explained. He was quiet for a long time.

"Alright," he said finally. "I get it now. Guess I should of expected. Not like I have much else to give."

They waited. They had time. He didn't.

"So," he said, like they knew he would. "Say I, uh. If I agree. What happens then?"

Many things. Nothing. A thousand, thousand revolutions of a lone planet around a lone star in a lone galaxy. It was all the same to them.

"...To me, I mean."

They -

They.

"You... don't know, huh?"

They.

"Damn it. _Damn it._ How the hell do ya expect me to agree to something with conditions like - "

They needed him.

"How - How do I know you won't screw me over? You could leave Ford on the other side, after. Not like I can do anything to stop you."

Ford. Stanford Filbrick Pines. The Author.

 _Everyone, this armageddon wouldn't be_ possible _without help from our friend here. Give him a six-fingered hand!_

His brother.

He was wrong. He could. When.

They said, you would do anything for more time.

They said, anything.

He hesitated.

He nodded.


	5. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

The landline receiver fit into its base with a final-sounding _click_. Ford sat for a moment, staring into the distance with unfocused eyes. Then, with a guttural noise of frustration, he swept everything off the table with one forceful movement of his arm.

Hundreds of sheets of paper flew through the air and slid all over the floor. Ford breathed heavily for a few moments, quietly staring at the mess he made. Then, absurdly thankful for the lack of witnesses, he bent over and started to pick them up.

There was no telling if it was important paperwork, or more contacts. Or, they might even contain clues about…

He sighed. The rest of his call to Shermy had gone, well.

The single word that came to mind did not exist in this dimension, the last he had checked. But the closest translation… It had not gone smoothly. It had not gone smoothly at all.

As Ford had found out a few minutes after his request for help, Shermy was an investigative journalist. It was a clear boon, considering that he was after information, and lots of it - until he realized that Shermy's penchant for complicated, borderline uncomfortable questions had only intensified with age and experience.

Telling her the entire truth was out of the question - at least, for now. He had enough trouble with clearing the encyclopedia of crimes his brother had committed under his name. The thought of explaining thirty years of inter-dimensional travel, stolen identities, and supernatural encounters was… daunting, to say the very least.

Stanley could take care of _that -_ once Ford found him.

But she had been… very insistent in her demand for answers. Mabel's letter to her parents about her newest grunkle had not helped. It had gotten to the point that Shermy had threatened to drive up to Oregon herself, and it was only through Ford's quick thinking and - and she had been very clear on this - her long history of trust with 'Ford' that she had relented.

She had promised to look into disappearances and generally strange ongoings in the general time and geographic location of Stanley's car crash… as well as the circumstances of Stanley's 'death' itself. No promises, Shermy had told him seriously - it had been a very long time ago, after all.

Ford had agreed readily to everything his sister demanded - yes, he would tell her why he needed the information, yes, he would explain what exactly was going on with Stanley - with the knowledge that once he got him back, any attempt at an explanation would be made much easier.

But she had made one request of him that made him hesitate.

"Look, Ford," Shermy had said. "I don't know what's happening on your end, but. If you do find Stanley…"

"Yes?"

"Ask him why. If he's been alive this whole time, why the hell did he never come back? Ma and Pa _died_ thinking he was gone, and I never even got to -" She cut off. "…Just ask him, alright?"

Ford opened his mouth, then closed it with a click.

"Ford?"

"I will," he said thickly. That was a question that he could answer… but Ford knew without a doubt that his reply would only prompt additional, more difficult questions. 'Stanley' hadn't come back so 'Stanford' could - and it had never really hit that Ford wasn't the only who had lost his identity, thirty years ago.

Not until now.

He cleared his throat. "Shermy, you believe me? About Stanley being alive?"

Her reply was a bitter laugh. "…I don't know what to believe right now, Ford. But you had my back when I needed it most. I'm not enough of an asshole to not have yours."

Then Shermy had hung up, leaving Ford to a dial tone and the clamor of his own thoughts. Slowly, deliberately, he put his head in his hands.

Was his brother a murderer?

Stanley was a con-man and a liar, Ford knew. Having stumbled upon Stan's list of charges (under _Ford's_ name, no less) while channel flipping several weeks earlier, he was also very aware of the sheer amount of his brother's crimes. There was no telling the kind of crowds Stanley had been caught up with during that decade.

So really, Ford shouldn't be surprised about this new development. It fit everything he knew about his brother. And hadn't Stanley himself admitted that he would do _anything_ for his family?

But he couldn't believe it.

Stanford Pines had always been a man of reason. Even his obsession with anomalies had been well substantiated by hundreds of incident reports. He made decisions after careful weighing of his options. What was logical, was what was _right_. The last time he had lapsed in his judgement… had nearly brought about the end of the world.

But here and now, he could not bring himself to acknowledge the logical possibility.

Because this was Stanley. His brother, who lied and cheated and almost damned the world for his family - but also, his brother, who he had honestly envied for much of his childhood. Ford might have had the raw intelligence, but it was Stanley who had, as their mother referred to it, the 'personality'. Stanley had his natural charm, something that Ford sorely lacked.

In truth, it was far more than that.

As children, Stanley had been everything he ever wanted to be. He had no trouble talking to people, with a boundless confidence in himself that Ford lacked completely. And, most of all - he was _normal_ , with his five-fingered hands and a wide smile for everyone. Everyone, except his blinding fury at Ford's bullies - and even now, that was something Ford still couldn't completely comprehend.

(But after that flash of deja vu seeing Dipper risk his life and the world not just to save his sister, but _him_ … perhaps, now he understood a bit more.)

When their father had thrown Stan out… it had almost been a moment of vindication. His brother wouldn't _always_ be okay, his 'personality' wouldn't _always_ carry him through - and then, minutes later, when the moment had passed and the reality hit that his brother was _gone_ … he had told ( _lied_ ) to himself that his brother had deserved it, and what's more - Ford didn't need him anyways.

( _and… Stan would be fine. He_ always _was._ )

But even without Stanley by his side, adulthood had been especially humbling. He couldn't trust, he couldn't commit, he _couldn't_ \- and everyone had left, in some way or another. Watching Fiddleford disappear into the darkness of their laboratory, he had shouted and cursed - and knew, within his heart, that his brother would not have made the mistakes he had. Stanley, who trusted, who committed, who _loved_ -

Stanley, who, despite his crimes, his lies… was a better person than Ford could ever hope to be.

His brother was a con-man and a liar, but he was not a murderer.

( _he couldn't be_ )

Ford leaned back.

Every part of Gravity Falls was somehow influenced by the supernatural, and Ford had no doubt that Stanley's faked death was aided by forces unlimited by rules of reason. What he needed was evidence. He didn't know what kind of creature was involved, but.

 _Twelfth floorboard from the door, my room. Couldn't risk Dipper and Mabel –_

Ford sat up, eyes wide. Stan's note. Of course.

True, there were a number of things that his brother could be referring to. Before - all of _this_ , he had automatically assumed that Stanley simply kept his earnings hidden under the floorboards of his home - he couldn't see his brother ever making deposits at the bank.

(Except he evidently _had_ , judging by Ford's paid-off mortgage and student debts.)

But, confronted with the new information of the past hour, the line had taken a far more sinister meaning. Whatever was hidden under those floorboards could contain clues as to how his brother had managed to fake his accident.

* * *

Stanley's room smelled of smoke, unnecessarily strong cologne, and strangely enough, just the smallest whiff of fabric softener. Even knowing the man was probably hundreds of miles away at this point, Ford felt uncomfortable just… walking inside.

It had been many, many years since they had shared a room, but it seemed that the vast majority of his brother's bad habits was intact. Various things were crammed into the corners, from vacuums to helmets. The bed was unmade. Ford stepped carefully over the beer cans scattered all over the carpet, and -

Carpet?

He knelt to the ground, inspecting it with squinted eyes. Yes, this was very clearly carpet - _old_ carpet at that, stained with unknown substances and smelling vaguely of alcohol. But Stanley had very clearly mentioned _floorboards_ …

Ford sighed, and pulled out a knife from his pocket, a keepsake from his thirty years traveling through dimensions. Stan wouldn't complain about property damage, surely, not when the rest of his room looked like _this._

He cut a slit into the carpet with some difficulty, and pried the two sides apart with his hands. Floorboards, rotted with age. Ripping them up before laying the carpet must have cost extra, knowing his brother.

Or, with what he knew _now…_ they probably provided an additional layer of security to whatever Stanley was hiding.

Because there was no doubt now - this was not a hiding place for a stash of money, not when it was almost impossible to unearth, even with the knowledge of its location.

This was for hiding something permanently.

Further observations determined the width of each floorboard, and some quick mental calculations brought Ford to a location several feet from where he had started. The actual retrieval process was far more difficult, as Ford cursed and fumbled his way through splinters and rug burns to pry up the floorboards.

But then, he reached below and closed his fingers on something that was evidently not dirt, and the triumph that he felt then made it all worth it.

It was a book, with blue covers and considerable heft. Ford blinked. No, a journal - not one of his, as it was evidently a product of mass production, and Stanford had hand-bound all three of his.

There was only one person it could belong to.

Perhaps, he had more in common with his brother than either of them had believed.

He cracked it open carefully. It had been more damaged by the passage of time than his own journals - understandable, because when Stanford Pines made something, he made it _well_. But the majority of the words were legible, and his brother's handwriting was distinctive on the pages.

Ford sat down, adjusted his glasses, and prepared to read. A cockroach crawled over his splayed hand.

…Maybe it was a better idea to examine Stanley's journal in the kitchen.

* * *

Only about a third of the pages were filled.

Stanley had taken a very different approach to the creation of his journal. While Ford had meant for his journals as references above all, Stan's entries were more reminiscent of a diary, focusing more on his personal experiences and thoughts. Each entry was written chronologically, with the day's date scrawled on the top of each blurb. Just from a skimming of the contents, his brother had focused more on text - the few pictures were rudimentary at best, but the written descriptions were vivid… and oddly poetic in their bluntness. Then, there were some pages of equations that Ford remember vaguely from the later years of his doctorate studies.

The latter raised an eyebrow, but for now… he ignored all of that, and immediately flipped to find the day of his brother's faked death - only to find that the last entry was written several days before.

Ford swallowed his disappointment. Of course it wouldn't be that easy.

With a sigh, he returned to the very first entry, and began to read.

* * *

 _Gravity Falls, January, 1982_

Stanley could still hear his brother's screams, even though it had been over an hour since... it happened.

Over an hour, spent grappling with machinery he had no idea how to use, pressing any buttons he could, cursing whatever deity thought it was funny to screw over Stanley Pines just one more time.

If only Ford put labels on all his... science stuff. Then maybe he could have the slightest idea how to even start bringing his brother back.

(Because Ford _was_ alive, and it didn't matter how long, it didn't matter what he had to do, Ford was alive and Stan was going to bring him back -)

He had flipped through the book Ford had thrown at him. Unfortunately, the words might as well be gibberish. Even ignoring the strangely detailed pictures of... _things_ that made Stan wonder if his brother had ever gotten into hallucinogens in college, Ford's equations and calculations reached far, far beyond the level of any math Stan had ever learned during his admittedly meager amount of schooling.

And back then, he had thought throwing the alphabet into the mix had been crazy enough.

By now, Stan had about come to terms that he was stuck. He needed to bring Ford back, but he had no idea where to even start. Was his brother's invention just broken, or had it always been a single-use device? And even if it was broken, how was he supposed to know what to fix?

He had to confront the truth - Stan wouldn't be getting his brother back anytime soon. But eventually, he would. _He had to._ Right now, however…

The rush of adrenaline that had fueled him for most of the past hour had completely faded, and paralyzing pain from his injury had replaced it. It hurt to move from his bent position, and an accidental scraping of the burn against Ford's couch was so painful he had yelled out loud.

Eventually, he managed to stagger upright, a hand instinctively reaching towards to his back.

Cold water, that was what he needed. Cold water and lots of painkillers.

As it turned out, Ford's medicine cabinet was well-stocked. Perhaps, unusually so. Everything was legal, yes - but what had Ford been doing that required all of these painkillers? And… bandages?

Stan squinted, then shook his head. His brother had clearly gotten involved in some crazy things during the last decade - though maybe _he_ wasn't the one to talk.

He took a few, and swallowed them down completely dry. Sure, it probably wasn't a great idea to pop strange pills in unknown amounts. But the pain was nearly blinding now, and this, at least, was something Stan had a lot of experience in. He hadn't been able to afford neatly printed dosage amounts and prescriptions for nearly a decade.

Nearly half an hour later, he sank down on the toilet seat, new gauze haphazardly applied to his burn, done with only the aid of the mirror. His legs gave out halfway and he hissed in pain as he smacked into the code porcelain. Good thing he had decided to sit down when he did.

Stan was tired. He had been exhausted for the majority of the last decade, but now, it felt as if every ounce of fatigue he had endured and ignored had come crashing down on him. It had been a long drive up to Oregon, with little sleep and even less food, as his throbbing eyes and the gnawing pit in his stomach reminded him.

There was nothing more he wanted to do but sleep.

But he couldn't. Not now. Not until he got Ford back. God knows what was on the other side of that portal, and judging by Ford's reaction… it was nothing good.

He had to go back down there. Maybe Stan had overlooked something, or his brother had left a note somewhere, or. Something.

There had to be something. Anything.

The journey back down to his brother's underground laboratory ended up taking a whole lot of time and leaning on walls. Stan staggered out of the elevator, flipping through Ford's journal until he found the page he had seen earlier.

It looked like a blueprint - well, part of a blueprint, anyways. But there was one of the sides of the triangle, that part of the circle… now, if only Ford wrote the stuff on there in a language Stan could actually _read_.

He squinted back at the machine again, and that's when he saw it.

Directly in front of the entrance to the portal, hovering several feet from the ground, was a swirling mass of substance that Stan had no idea how to describe. Gravity clearly had no hold on it, but the way it moved… looked as if it was crackling with energy.

It seemed to have a _lack_ of color, if anything, and staring too long into it sent chills down his spine.

Stan lifted one of the shorter metal pipe near his foot, and used it to poke the thing. Y'know, just to get an idea of what the heck it was.

…Well, whatever it was, it writhed at the contact - almost angrily, if he had to put a label to it. Stan examined the tip of the pipe dubiously. A whole chunk of the metal, the part that had actually made contact with the substance, was completely gone. Not melted or cut off, just… missing, as if it had never been there in the first place.

Stan blinked. Well, good thing he didn't use his hand. What the hell was he supposed to do with this thing?

...Whelp, he got nothing.

"Uh," he said finally, squinting up at the… some kind of rift, or something. He did not want to deal with this right now. "…Don't suppose ya could just… go away?"

He didn't expect any sort of reply, and he didn't get one. Staring too hard at the thing made Stanley vaguely uncomfortable for some reason, and he looked away. Now, he had no idea what the thing was, but after seeing what it did to solid metal… Stan knew for sure he didn't want it anywhere around him.

Dammit. He could get Ford to deal with it. Once he made it back safely.

But… This was one of weird things that his brother was obsessed with, wasn't it? Stanley glanced back down at his brother's journal, then shook his head to himself.

Nah, he couldn't write anything in here. Even if Ford appreciated him keeping record, he would go bananas first about Stanley messing with his private property. Or something.

He turned away from the portal and began his long journey upstairs.

Stanley had a long night ahead of him.

* * *

 _Gravity Falls, August, 2012_

Ford's face had turned ashen. He wiped at the words, as if trying to dispel an illusion. It couldn't be possible, could it? This was the first time the portal had been activated - well, excluding the accident with Fiddleford. But really, both times, the portal had been open for less than a minute. Not nearly enough time for a -

\- for an interdimensional rift to be formed.

He chuckled weakly to himself. Stanley must have seen something else. If a rift between dimensions had been opened, it would have meant the end of the universe. Ford would never had had a home dimension to return to.

Then the moment of humor passed, and Ford shook his head. No, there was nothing else it could be. The proximity to the portal, the physical appearance, the fact that what was inside... could not be comprehended by human eyes... It didn't make sense, but he could not hide from the truth.

When Ford had gone through the portal, a hole had been torn in the universe.

The question was, how was the world still existing? Even Ford's specially engineered prison had been unable to hold the rift in the end - at least, without the alien adhesive that Stanley could _not_ have had access to. In fact, his brother clearly had no idea what was in his basement - or what it meant for the universe.

It was the perfect opportunity for Bill Cipher. All it took was a meeting in the dreamscape, and Ford knew perfectly well how easily the dream demon could prey on a person's insecurities. Not to mention... with Stanley as oblivious as he was to the supernatural, Cipher could have simply waited for the rift to naturally expand.

But none of that had happened. What had happened?

Ford steadied his shaking hands, flipped the page, and -

\- blinked.

 _Thing was gone in the morning_ , he read. _...Not gonna question it. It's one thing off my plate, at least. But I was taking a look at his journal last night, and I think I figured out some of these weird symbols -_

Ford closed the journal, letting out a breath. Of course. It made perfect sense. Now, the last few minutes of panic seemed ridiculous. Yes, the portal had not been open long enough for a permanent interdimensional rift to form. Just another side-effect, a mildly more severe version of the gravity fluctuations. It had closed itself within the day. It must have been a lost cause for Cipher.

A dead end, but he was indescribably relieved that it didn't develop any further. Dimensional walls tended to hold strong, and it took a great deal of power to break through them. Even if anything had come through during the rift's brief period of existence, it would have been pulled back through when it shut. The universe preferred a state of homeostasis above all else, and without an anchor of some sort...

He shook his head. Bill Cipher and the other creatures from the other side of the rift... there was no point in dwelling. The walls between dimensions had been reinforced with the metaphysical equivalent of steel, a thousand times over. Nothing could get across now.

Besides, he was facing a problem far closer to home. If there was one thing that the Weirdmageddon had taught him... it was that family was more important than the supernatural.

* * *

 _Gravity Falls, January, 1982_

Hours after the lights shut off, the rift contracted wildly. Pulsed. It frayed at the edges, shrinking slightly, and -

They were called. They came.

\- snapped shut, sparks of remnant energy crackling out of existence.

Confusion.

"Well, well, _well._ Look who's made it, just in time! Cutting it a bit close there, I admit - I was getting worried you wouldn't be joining the fun!"

Confusion.

"Oh, I _know_ that _look_. An eternity spent as an inconceivable horror existing outside of the laws of the natural universe - sentience must come pretty new to you, huh? How does it feel, existing in less than six-hundred eighteen dimensions? Tingly? Let me tell ya, it's a real _pain -_ can't even stretch my fifty-seven eye-wings in the seventh dimension without driving a few dozen humans into crippling insanity! Hey, how you feeling, Six-Sights?"

Confusion.

"Eh, I can see I'm not getting anywhere. Old dogs and new tricks, and all that. Consciousness is overrated, anyways. Good thing all I need from you are old tricks."

Confusion.

"Well, I got bad news for you. That sigil of yours can't tether you to this plane for long. We're gonna need something a lot stronger if we want you to kickstart the fun. Something like a human soul! Good news..."

"...I know a sucker who's _just_ desperate enough to give you a hand."


	6. Chapter 5

_Gravity Falls, February, 1982_

Stan groped frantically, eyes useless in the pitch black of the darkness. There was some kind of cool, tangible quality to it, and he thought suddenly of lightless ocean depths.

But this did not feel like an absence of light. This darkness had a liquid existence of its own.

Eventually, he tired. For a moment, gasping for breath that somehow existed, Stan simply hung there in the darkness, the chill of inexplicable fear deep in the pit of his belly. There, he registered an odd, indescribable sensation, like a shortness of breath, like a force of pressure on his back.

Someone was watching him.

He hadn't survived this long by being a complete knucklehead. Mustering up his courage, he shouted into the void, voice hoarse but strong.

"Who's out there?"

There was no reply.

Stan ignored the tingling sensation at the back of his shoulder, ignored how quickly it accelerated from a minor discomfort to burning pain, and repeated himself, teeth gritted. "I said, who's out there?

And then, he saw it. Or rather, he saw Them.

 **STANLEY PINES.**

He didn't as much hear the words as he felt them. The air was gone from his lungs when he gasped for air - and, it seemed to him, from everywhere else as well.

"What - " Stan cut off suddenly. He raised his head and looked into six impassive eyes. Green. A pale, poisonous green. "What the hell _are - "_

* * *

A sudden burst of pain - dull and distinctly located in the region of his left hand.

Stan opened his eyes to the worn wooden logs that made up the ceiling of his brother's home. He blinked once in momentary confusion, and then glanced over to confirm his suspicions.

He had banged his hand on the coffee table. It wasn't particularly painful and evidently temporary, but it had been enough to jolt him awake. That, at least, he was thankful for.

What the _hell_ was that?

Stan pushed himself up from the couch and attempted to rub the sleep from his sore eyes, to no avail. He might have rested physically, but mentally… that was another matter entirely.

This was real. _This_ was real - the threadbare couch, the plain wooden walls, the high ceiling.

Not the voice. Not the _eyes_.

Bad dreams, huh? Stan had had his share of those. But none like this. There were always some kind of outlandish event in nightmares, no matter how bad, that he could grab onto to convince himself of the surreality of the events.

But though this nightmare was both strange and bewildering, Stan could not quite convince himself that it was just a dream. It _felt_ real, both inside and out. It made him feel real fear, at the very least. Hell, it made him _paranoid_.

Stan remembered how Ford looked back then - how his brother had looked back then, eyes wild and pupils dilated, picking at the skin around his nails, shivering and generally looking an inch from a mental asylum. He had been scared, fearful of everything around him.

Was this how Ford ended up… like that? A few bad dreams, that feeling of deep helplessness - and his brother had went off the deep end - had pointed a crossbow at his own twin, and demanded to know if Stan was going to steal his _eyes_..

Then, with a burst of sudden anger, he thought - _well, Stan Pines is made of tougher stuff than_ that.

Whatever had frightened his brother out of his wits, that thing with the eyes and the green, was in for a surprise if it expected an easy target in him. If it thought it could scare Stan away from Gravity Falls, away from saving his own _brother_ \- then it had a whole other thing coming.

( _No,_ They _had a whole other thing coming_ , Stan corrected himself automatically. Then he blinked. How did he know _that_?)

The foul taste of his own morning breath made it hard to stay thinking.

Stan got to his feet with a grunt, and began his long trek to the bathroom. The sudden movement made him suddenly aware of the various pains all over his body - the ache in his lower back from the hard couch, the throbbing pain slowly disappearing from his left hand, a resurgence in the burning sensation in his burn wound.

A proper bed would do him good, he supposed. Anything better than Ford's threadbare couch and a thin blanket.

But the thought of taking over Ford's bedroom in any way made him uncomfortable. It had been a decade since he had last slept in the same room as his brother, but it felt even longer.

A lifetime, maybe.

Stan hated being in his brother's room, and had ventured in only when circumstances forced him to. He couldn't quite explain it. There were reasons, of course: there were too many of Ford's nerdy books in there, his brother would throw a fit if Stan invaded his private space without permission, it reminded Stan too much of him. But none of them was right, not exactly.

It just felt like a betrayal of sorts. As if, by taking over another part of his brother's life, Stan was admitting a kind of defeat. That he was admitting that he would not be able to save his brother in a matter of days, or weeks, or months. It would take years. Maybe a lifetime, seeing how incomprehensible his brother's notes had been.

But… that was fine. At least Stan was in a better place than he was a month ago. Here he was - with a job, a goal, and if he managed to get the damn portal working again, his family - for the first and only time in his adult life. No matter how unconventional or inconsistent.

The door opened with a creak, and Stan splashed a few handfuls of cool water on his tired face, hoping it would soothe or hide at least _some_ of the signs of his very long night. He brushed his teeth until his gums bled. A half-assed shave job later, he looked at least somewhat presentable. The liveliest he could look, under the circumstances.

At least he had running water. That wasn't something he could always say.

An uncomfortable twinge from the burn on his back reminded Stan of the last step in his new morning routine. Wincing and squinting at the mirror, he unpacked the gauze from his injury.

When did burns heal _blue_?

Stan certainly hadn't gone to any special measures to treat his wound. In fact, he had dealt with it much like how he usually did with personal injuries in the past - that is, clean it the best he could, stick a bandage on it or stitch it up, then ignore it. In retrospect, that might… not have been the best idea.

Stan made a noise of disgust. Why the hell was he wastin' his time on this stuff? He had survived, hadn't he?

He took one last look at his burn. What was the point of packing on more gauze anyways? The stuff cost money, and it wasn't as if it helped. Burn was gonna sting every few hours, no matter how many layers he stuck on.

He grinned at the mirror, exposing as many pearly whites as he could. A salesman's smile - or a conman's. Not that there was much difference, when it came to Stanley Pines.

Stan frowned suddenly. Nah. There was something… _different_ needed. Something more. Sure, he had switched out the ol' question mark costume for a more distinguished looking black suit. Added a bowtie, an 8-ball cane, but -

He heard a sharp knock on the door. Stan froze for just a second. Maybe if he just ignored it, it would go away?

Whoever it was knocked again, just as frantic and clear as the first. "Stanford!" He heard distantly. It was a man's voice, not especially deep, and with just a hint of a Southern twang. "Stanford Pines!"

Oh, hell. It would be a few hours until the newly renamed Mystery Shack opened to the public, and Stan hadn't exactly done any advertising - the odds that this was some early bird visitor was astronomically low. And whoever this stranger was, he knew his name - his brother's name, at the very least. This wasn't someone he had met in town.

This was someone who knew his brother, and by the sound of it, it was more than a passing acquaintance. Meaning, this was someone who was going to know that Stan was _not_ who he was pretending to be.

He might be screwed, but never let it be said that Stanley Pines didn't go down fighting. Stan cleared his throat, and tried to think hard about how his brother had acted in the hour or so he had talked to him.

Hole ripped in the fabric between dimensions. Advanced mathematical calculations to estimate the probability of impact. Stan repeated the words to himself under his breath, trying to get the voice just right.

"I'll be over in just a minute!" He shouted clearly, trying to keep the worry and fear out of his voice.

Stan fumbled on a pair of his brother's glasses and shrugged off the black 'Mr. Mystery' suit, pulling on one of Ford's dirty old coats over his white dress shirt. With a handful of water, he rearranged his own hair in as good of an imitation of his brother's as he could. He threw an old towel or two over some of his newer 'attractions', and let out a deep breath.

He cracked open the door, and slumped slightly in relief.

Guess he won't be needing the bat.

He didn't know the stranger, of course, but - the guy just didn't look like a threat. With his rail-thin frame, he looked like he could blow away with a heavy gust of wind. His nose was… unfortunate, and coming from a Pines, that was sayin' something. His wire frame glasses and familiar, nervous expression, however, single-handedly answered Stan's leading question about the man.

There was no doubt - this was a world class, rank A nerd of the highest degree. Maybe even one on par with the real Stanford Pines himself.

The two men exchanged a mutual look of silence.

"Stanford," the other man said finally, voice quiet. "It's - been quite a while."

The past ten years had taught Stan the art of reading a situation. So, friends - good ones, which was… kind of surprising, given how well Stan knew his brother. Might be that the surprise might just his own brand of jealous hurt.

Or - hell. Stan squinted. He had seen that particular look before, that specific brand of awkward discomfort - and wasn't _this_ awkward. By the looks of it, these two nerds had been a bit more than friends. Who woulda thought that _Ford_ of all people…

But there had been a fallout at some point, somehow. Stan sure wished he knew _why_. Except, this wasn't exactly a conversation he wanted to have out here on the doorstep.

"Yes," he said, glancing briefly to the side like his brother always did when he was nervous. "Yes, it - it has." Damn, Stan still had no idea what the guy's name was. "Would you like to - come in? We should talk inside - " Crap, crap, think of a reason… Ford had been pretty damn paranoid then, wasn't he? "Someone could be listening in."

"Someone listening in?" The other man blinked incredulously.

"Uh -"

"Stanford, we both know that your home is quite the _opposite_ of a bastion of privacy," he snapped, with a surprising amount of anger. Stan blinked, taken aback. But it seemed that he wasn't the only one - Stanford's friend seemed briefly shocked at his own outburst, before he regrouped. "I - I know ya trust him over me, Stanford. But for once, _trust me_ on this when I say that - that _thing_ is not what he seems!"

Stan's expression tightened. The conversation had turned an abrupt turn into unknown territory, and he had no idea whatsoever how to proceed. 'Him'? Bastion of privacy? There was a long, familiar-sounding story here, he had no doubt. Stan had been dropped right in the middle of a lover's spat taken to the _n_ th degree.

Just typical Ford.

Well, Stan had survived the past decade with the mantra of, 'fake it 'til you make it.' It seemed that this situation was no different.

"I'm not," Stan said hesitantly. "In contact with him, I mean." It - wasn't exactly a lie - Stanford certainly didn't look like he had talked to _anyone_ in a long while.

The stranger looked surprised, then strangely hopeful. There was relief in his voice when he spoke. "Then, the portal - ?"

Stan's face froze. The portal? This guy _knew_ about the portal? The one that Stanford had been so adamant about keeping a secret, the one that -

One that could not have been the work of a single man, no matter how much of a genius he was. And the equipment he had found downstairs had belonged to more than just one guy. The five-fingered gloves - Stan took a harder look at the man in front of him. Definitely a nerd.

Someone Ford would get along with. Maybe, someone Ford could work with as well.

Stan's mouth felt desert dry. Standing in front of him was the key to getting his brother back - someone who had worked on the same project, who _knew how to fix it_. All he had to do now was convince him to help.

"Stanford, now that you believe what I told you about _him… surely_ you would agree to shut down that portal?" The man asked again.

Stan let out a sigh. There was a whole story here that he knew nothing about, and he would be lying his ass off if he claimed that he wasn't curious about it. "Let's - talk about it inside."

The other man looked doubtful. " _Please,_ " Stan said through gritted teeth. The last word had been hard to say - in fact, his burn flared in pain just thinking about it. But it seemed that it was the last thing the other man needed, because he nodded jerkily and walked through the open door.

Stan shut the door, and quickly stepped in front of it. He raised a hand, and swallowed. "Sorry 'bout this, but I can't shut down the portal - "

The stranger's face turned bloodless pale, but his expression had become resolved. "…If there's no other option," he started with a sense of finality.

" - because I'm not Stanford Pines."

" - then, I'm _sorry_ , Stanford - " The other man blinked, one of his hands reaching under his coat. "You - What?"

"I told ya," Stan said again, his own accent slipping seamlessly back into his voice, "I'm not Ford." As explanation, he raised a single five-fingered hand. If this guy was as close with Ford as Stan thought he was, this was as much of a confession.

But the man blanched. "Bill," he whispered, eyes huge and white behind his glasses. He pulled out his hand from under his coat, and he was holding _something_ in it - the wrong shape and size to be a gun, but Stan wasn't about to bet his life on it. " _Bill._ You promised - I _stayed,_ I _finished_ the portal, you said you wouldn't _hurt him_ \- "

Stan tackled him in a moment of adrenaline-fueled stupidity. It was never a good idea to jump a man with a weapon, but in his defense, this stranger was definitely not very experienced with using it. He wrestled the gun - _thing_ out of the other man's hand and sent it clattering across the floor. The man gave a yelp, but Stan didn't budge.

Instead, he pressed him against the wall even as the man struggled frantically. "I don't know who this Bill guy is," Stan said through gritted teeth, "but I ain't him. I'm Stan - Stanley Pines. Stanford's brother, his -"

At that, his captive went limp in his grasp. "You're his twin," he said dully. He was staring at Stan now, mouth open slightly. "The one who was - thrown out from home at the age of sixteen."

"He, uh." Stan swallowed and let go of him. It didn't seem like the man was going to try anything at this point. "He told ya about that?"

"He did. Very unwillingly, I might add. But I wore him down," the stranger said, straightening up and brushing off his jacket. He was taller than Stan had initially estimated, several inches hidden by his terrible posture. "But that's not the topic at hand. Why exactly are you impersonating Stanford in his own home? With that said," his voice gained an edge, and he almost sounded dangerous. "Where exactly is your brother?"

"Those two things kinda… go together," Stan said quickly. "Ford called me over, couple 'f week ago. He showed me this machine in his basement - some kind of portal between dimensions, or somethin' like that. It… activated, on accident. Ford got sucked in. I've… been pretendin' to be him every since"

The other man was quiet after the explanation, his face like stone.

It was an uncomfortable silence. "Um," Stan said slowly, "who _are_ you exa -"

"I knew it would kill him," the stranger said finally, cutting through Stan's aborted query like a hot knife through butter. His voice was unreadable. "I told him that he was meddling with forces bigger than he knew. But he wouldn't listen. And now… he's dead."

"My brother is _not_ dead," Stan growled. "He's - not. That's why I'm here doin' my best impersonation of him, alright? I just have to fix the damn thing and - and I'll bring him back. He gave me one of his journals before he got sent through. I've been tryin' to figure out how to fix it - he's got blueprints or somethin' written down in here, but it's incomplete and I can't read _half_ the stuff in here anyways."

"It's not that easy. Stanford wrote everything down in code. Besides, just the construction of the portal requires advanced knowledge in theoretical physics, doctorate level mechanical and electrical engineering - "

"Which you've got, right?" Stan asked. "You helped him build this thing, didn't you?"

"I - " It seemed to take the man some effort to power through. "Yes, I did."

"Then you can help me fix the portal an' bring my brother back."

"F-fix the portal…" he swallowed. "It's not that simple, Stanley. There's something on the other side of that portal, and if it comes through… It could mean the end of - well, everything. This is far more than a matter of life and death, this is a matter of the _world_. Stanford is dead, Stanley. I saw the other side. He could not have survived it."

Stan shook his head. "Just - stop, would ya? Stop sayin' that. My brother's alive, alright? I would know if he wasn't." At least, he thought he would. He couldn't really describe it, and it certainly couldn't hold up to any kind of logic, but there was a part of Stanley that _knew_ beyond a doubt that his twin was still living.

Or maybe it was just hope in clever disguise.

Thankfully, the other man didn't even attempt a debate. "Fine. Even assuming that he is alive, you might very well be damning this world for the sake of a single living person. You will be unleashing forces beyond your control. Do you think _Stanford_ would appreciate you doing this?"

He… wouldn't. That, Stan had no doubt. Stanford had always been the one with the big picture in mind. As always, hindsight was 20/20 - he should have known that his brother would have never settled for their childhood dream of sailing and treasure hunting. If what this guy was saying was the truth, then Ford would ream him out for endangering the world for the sake of a single man. But the thing was -

"I'm not expectin' him to," Stan admitted after a long hesitation. Sure, that was the dream - that his brother would return from the portal with… some kind of thanks, some bit of gratitude. He was too jaded now to think about the Stan o' War as an actual _possibility_ \- but maybe, Ford would let him stick around for just a little while. They could make up. Be something like brothers again.

But Stan was also a realist - least, he tried to be. Ford had been crazier than a sack full o' cats when he had - had pushed his brother into the portal - and he doubted _that_ had improved the man's mental state at all.

"Look, uh - " He gave up. "What _is_ your name anyways?"

The man scooted his glasses up his nose a bit. "Fiddleford. Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, really, I'm an old college friend of Stanford's."

" _Fiddleford Hadron McGu_ \- " Stan shook his head. There were some names too strange not to be real. And… old college friend? Was that what they were calling it these days? "I'm not gonna ask. But, uh, Fidds." The man blinked. "I know you and my brother were - pals. So ya know how he is. I'm not doin' this for him to thank me, y'know? I mean, not that I wouldn't appreciate that, but - that's not the kinda person Stanford is. I'm doin' this so I can have my brother back, 'cause I don't know what I'll do knowin' he's gone forever."

Fiddleford flinched at that, and Stan knew he had found his opening.

"I - I'm sorry, Stanley, but - Stanford's - "

"But you - You get that too, right?" He pressed on. "I'm - I gotta admit, I haven't seen my brother in ten years. If ya knew him since college, then… You've known him for a long while. Hell, you might - know him better than I do." And didn't _that_ hurt to admit. "I used t'say that my brother was the dumbest genius in the world. Guess that's still true now. But, sure he's - too darn oblivious sometimes, he has some screwed up priorities, but - "

Stan shrugged helplessly, and went for all or nothing. "That's Sixer for ya. But I - _we_ still can't help but love him, yeah?"

Fiddleford was quiet. For one shining moment, Stan thought that maybe, he had gotten through to him -

"I - have to go, Stanley," Fiddleford said abruptly, an unreadable look in his eye.

Stan bit down an expletive. Shit, shit, _shit_ , this couldn't end like this. "I - Look, I'm - not the kinda person who _begs_ , but - " He let out a sigh. "I can't bring Ford back on my own. You're the only one who can fix that damn machine. Look, once we get 'im out, we can smash the thing into rubble, alright? Between the two of us workin' together, we can probably get him to get his head out of his ass. We just need t'bring him back before -"

"I'll think about it," the other man interrupted, with an air of concrete finality.

Stan's heart sank. Seems like this all he was going to get from the man. Short of forcing him to work on the portal unwillingly, a recipe for disaster considering how little Stan knew about the machine, this was a dead end.

"…Alright. Fine," he said, even though if there was one thing the past ten years had taught him, it was that 'maybe' meant 'no.' "Just. Really think about it, alright? P-please."

Fiddleford's not-gun was lying by his feet, and Stan picked it up in one fluid motion. Fiddleford's eyes went wide, but Stan could tell with a glance that this was no real gun. No place for bullets, just - some kind of glass, like a light bulb. Completely useless. But hell, if this made the man feel safe, all the power to him.

"Here," Stan said gruffly, handing the device to the other man, handle first. Sign of trust, right?

Fiddleford accepted it gingerly. He held it with a finger on the trigger and gave Stan a considering look. Even knowing that the thing couldn't do any real damage, Stan was momentarily, inexplicably afraid that he was going to shoot it.

"Stanley," Fiddleford said suddenly, "you don't need to get involved. The wise thing to do is to - forget about all this and go back to your old life. You can do that if you wanted."

There was no debate at all. Stan shook his head. "I can't. I really can't. Not when it's Ford."

The moment passed. Fiddleford nodded stiffly, and without further adieu, practically jolted out the door.

Stan watched him leave, and dragged a hand through his hair in frustration. Damn. Five bucks said that he was never gonna see that fella again.

Not that he blamed him. If it was some other unlucky sap who had gotten himself swept up in this mess, Stan would have already been a few states away. Really, interdimensional portals? Those tiny men Stan had found hiding in the closet the other day? And judging by the parts of Sixer's journal that hadn't been about the portal, the weirdness of the town wasn't exclusive to just that.

But it was his twin at stake here, and Stan wasn't about to give him up to the mysteries of this town. Creepy green eyes or not.

* * *

 _Gravity Falls, August, 2012_

"Mr. Pines?"

Stanford looked up and to the side. The car window rolled down to reveal a wide buck-toothed grin and a somewhat familiar, gopher-like face. He squinted - no, he did know this man, even if his name was, ah, escaping him at the moment. Soup? No, that couldn't be right, this dimension's naming conventions were different than dimension 17's.

A brief look around him made him realize one important fact - he had absolutely no idea where he was. Stanford had realized earlier this morning that the only things remotely edible left in the Shack had been a day-old glass of milk and a stale half loaf of bed, and made the decision to venture into town to restock the larders, so to speak. Unfortunately, Stanley had taken the car on his conceived venture, and Ford had been forced to walk. Just as well - it had been three decades since he had driven an Earth automobile. Nebulian warpcrafts on the other hand... But he must had made a wrong turn somewhere, distracted as he was by the contents of Stanley's journal.

Eye contact made the man's eyes widen in realization and his grin diminish, just a little. "Oh, you're the other Mr. Pines! What are you doin' all the way out here?"

"I was on my way into town," Ford admitted. "...You're the handyman who works for my brother, correct? I'm sorry, I don't know your name - "

The man chuckled. "It's Soos, Other Mr. Pines! An' that's me - I got a lotta experience unclogging toilets too, but -" He blinked. "Wa-ait, Other Mr. Pines... town's in th' other direction!" He pointed this thumb backwards, to where Ford had come.

"Ah." ...Had it really been that long since Stanford had left the Shack? Yes, he had been in town during the Weirdmageddon, but that hadn't been the best time to observe the scenery.

"It's just a few minutes away, really. Hey!" Soos blinked. "I can drive ya there!"

"...Are you sure?"

Soos nodded vigorously. "Sure thing, other Mr. Pines!"

Well, if he insisted. And if Stanley had trusted him with Dipper and Mabel, then there was no doubt about the man's intentions. "It's Stanford, actually," he said lightly as he eased himself into the front passenger seat. "Or Ford, whichever you would prefer."

"Gotcha, other Mr. Pines!" With that Soos made a - rather wild U-turn, sending gravel flying in all directions. Ford grabbed onto the assist handle on the side of the car in an attempt to limit the g-forces suddenly inflicted on his person, wondering briefly if everyone in this time drove as dangerously as his brother.

They sped over the rocky road, Soos seemingly unbothered by the amount of bumps and skids. Ford, on the other hand, was just a bit - queasy. In an attempt to distract himself from the imminent danger to his life, he reached for the book tucked in his coat pocket - and froze.

He glanced over at Soos with new eyes. The man was - rather close to Stanley, wasn't he? He certainly held a lot of respect for the older man. "...Soos, was it? This - might be a rather odd question, but... have you seen my brother around recently?"

Soos furrowed his forehead in thought. "Last time I saw Mr. Pines, he was at the small dudes' farewell party."

Another dead-end, then. Ford slumped back. "I see. Never mind, then."

"Why d'ya ask, other Mr. Pines?"

"It's Stanford. And - well, it's nothing really. I'm just trying to track down my brother."

Soos let out an audible gasp, his fingers suddenly tightening on the steering wheel. "T-track down - w-what happened t' Mr. Pines?"

"Nothing!" Ford said quickly, because the vehicle was making several uncomfortable swerves. "He's perfectly fine, I'm sure. He just left town last night, though he did leave a note. I'm simply hoping to - speak to him about some, ah, recent developments, and thought I'd ask around about his possible whereabouts. That is all."

The other man relaxed - and so did Stanford, now that he wasn't in any danger of crashing into a tree. "Huh, that's pretty weird 'f Mr. Pines t' do that. But he's been actin' pretty weird since he and the little dudes beat that triangle dude."

"Weird?"

"Well, everyone kept askin' Mr. Pines when the Mystery Shack was gonna reopen, 'cause the end of the world was over an' all. But he kept changin' the subject." Soos frowned. "Boy, I hope nothin's gonna happen to th' Shack."

"Oh." Ford... had some ideas about Stanley's weird behavior, but this was certainly not the right circumstances to bring them up. "Did he, ah, mention anything else? Any future plans, perhaps?"

"Nah, nothin' like that."

There was a long and rather awkward silence, but the buildings of Gravity Falls slowly came into view over the horizon. The silence continued as Soos pulled up in front of the Greasy Diner, but when Ford nodded his head in thanks and moved to exit the car, Soos spoke up.

"Hey, other Mr. Pines..." He fidgeted a little. "Do - D'ya mind if I come an' help? If Mr. Pines' gone missin'..."

Ford eyed him warily. Yes, he was at a dead end when it came to his investigation into Stanley's whereabouts - not even the man's journal had shown any signs of helping. Nor did he actually _know_ any citizens of Gravity Falls, especially not which ones would have any idea where his brother might have went. But on the other hand, he had no particular desire to drag anyone else into this.

"Well - " He tried, and faltered. There was something about the intensity of the man's pleading look that made it impossible to say no. And - well, surely it wouldn't do any harm?

"Man, I bet Lazy Susan knows somethin'! Or -"

"No, I don't mind," Ford said quickly, hoping he hadn't made the wrong decision. He dragged a hand through his hair. 'Lazy Susan'? It seemed that the weirdness of the town had spread to more than just its supernatural denizens.

Soos' eyes went wide. "I - I won't let you down, other Mr. Pines!"

* * *

 _Gravity Falls, February, 1982_

There it was again. That feeling of being watched, by a gaze that was a bit too intense to be normal. Stan exhaled.

"Look," he said, ignoring the innate instincts that were screaming at him to stop, to cower, to not engage, "if ya got somethin' to say, say it. I know _I'm_ lookin' forward to my first decent night of sleep in a damn _week_."

There was a jolt of something like surprise -

\- and then Stan was opening his eyes, feeling like he had slept more than the - he glanced at the ticking clock - four hours he had squeezed in the last night. Turns out, it was some hard work managing the Mystery Shack. Whole lot more visitors than he had been getting at the Murder Hut, though in retrospect, that was probably not the best name he could have chosen for the place. He might need to get an employee. Or two.

Was he getting used to this?

There was a knock on the door - again, he realized, because the first round of knocking had been what woke him up.

"Coming!" He yelled gruffly, groaning as he eased himself off the couch. The banging on the door stopped immediately, and Stan decided that he wasn't about to go to the effort to dig out some presentable clothing. If whoever it was could knock on his door at 6 AM on a Sunday, then they can handle the sight of Stan in his undershirt and boxers.

Stan cracked open the door. "Alright, I've had enough with - "

He froze.

"Stanley!" Fiddleford greeted, setting down what looked like a heavy toolbox and pulling out a stack of paper covered with what looked like scribbles to Stan's terrible eyesight. "I spent last night coming up with some theories as to what could have led to the portal's malfunction. The first and the most likely to me, the device could not handle the permanent transportation of a larger life form and - "

"Ya came back," Stan said weakly.

"Well - yes," the other man said, a bit hesitantly. "I... well, I thought about what you said. And I suppose - " He broke off again. "I'll help you bring Stanford back - or what's left of him. But that portal - regardless of what Stanford may say, it must be destroyed. And because - well, there's really no tellin' what condition the portal really _is_ in at this point, and for all I know without personal investigation, it could very well be still runnin' and - "

"Hey," Stan said with an easy grin, "you don't hafta justify yourself t'me, alright? I'm the sap who convinced you into this, 'member?"

"Right," Fiddleford said weakly. "Right." He let out a big breath. "...Long and short of it, I figured it's not too late. There's still the chance that - he could be saved. That he could be - convinced."

There was an edge of - something there, but Stan had never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. The man was willing to help, and that was good enough for him. He was a simple man, really - as long as he got his brother back, he didn't particularly care what happened afterwards.

* * *

In retrospect, maybe he should have.

* * *

[A/N: ...Wow, it's been, uh, a long time. Two months, almost. I'm not sure what excuses I can give. At least I got all those pesky college applications done? The rest of the year, it's all fanfic binging. Kinda good news is, this chapter is even longer than the last one. Could have been even longer, but I figured it was a bad idea to give my procrastination another opening to strike. So here it is - introduction of a few new plot elements.

It's a bit hard for me to balance events in the past and future, but hopefully, all goes well. I don't exactly have a good track record with plot-driven fics, but I _do_ have this all planned out to some degree, so. Hopefully I can get this fic done before the finale REALLY josses everything *sobs*

Confession: I'm pretty darn bad with timelines, so assume any inconsistencies come from this being an AU. Assumptions to make here: Fidds was mentally stable enough at the time of Stanley's arrival to pass off alright, Ford didn't know the full details of the Society of the Blind Eye, and Fidds is not far gone enough to throw away a chance to reconcile with his (boy) friend.]


	7. Chapter 6

As it turned out, 'Lazy Susan' was an older woman with a vaguely familiar face and a single lazy eye, which Stanford supposed explained the name. She greeted the two of them with a wide, genuine smile.

"Why, if it ain't Soos an' Mr. Mystery!" She set down a pot of lukewarm coffee, a shimmering veneer of grease covering its surface. "What can I get for our town heroes?" The woman gave Stanford a wink - or rather, because of her eye, a very meaningful blink.

"Actually," He interrupted with a strained smile, barely resisting the urge to correct her misunderstanding. The situation wasn't exactly one he wanted to get into now. "The two of us aren't here for breakfast. We're here for infor -"

"Mr. Pines and I will get what we usually get," Soos cut in, ignoring Ford's frantic hand motions. He beamed. "Ooh, and make the pancakes so they look like flyin' saucers!"

"No thank you," Stanford said, just as quickly. "I'm not here to eat, and really, we have some pressing - "

His stomach growled, and two pair of eyes turned to stare. He flushed crimson. Right, the last meal he had was the farewell breakfast with Dipper and Mabel. He hadn't eaten for almost - a day? Over the years, he had become used to the feeling of an empty stomach, but on the other side of the portal, he hadn't had to worry about other people taking an unnecessary interest in his diet – or lack of one.

The waitress gave him a knowing look. "Oh, hun. I'll get those orders in first thing. But sorry t' say, we're all outta eggs - our whole stock grew wings and flew off durin' that weirdness last week! But tell ya what," she added, leaning in with a conspiratory whisper. "I'll getcha a double order of everythin' else."

Stanford leaned back slightly, away from her smiling face. "...Really, I must refuse -"

"All on the house, 'f course!" She added quickly. "Compliments of the chef." A single hand waved at them from over the grill.

That... was not Stanford's concern, and he opened his mouth to say just as much. But – almost involuntarily, his eyes darted to a passing platter of food carried by a rather harried looking older woman, It looked – quite good, actually, and... he hadn't had French toast for _decades_.

Not to mention, his investigative partner had begun to shoot him pleading glances from across the table, puppy-dog looks that should look ridiculous on a grown man. Problem was, it was _working_.

He gave in. "Ah, yes, that would be – perfect, actually."

It felt a bit dishonest to get a free meal under his brother's name, but Stanford hadn't had the chance to stop by the town bank to withdraw some cash currency. And really... this was _his_ name, and Stanley had certainly taken more from him than a filling breakfast.

The woman scribbled down something on her notepad and rushed off into the busy kitchen. "Well, Soos," Stanford said with a breath of relief, glancing down at his watch, "as long as we keep a low profile, I believe we can make it out in - "

"Mr. Pines?" A slightly nasal voice came from behind him, and he whipped around to see a rather small man, an ill-fitting press fedora teetering on his head. "It _is_ you! Why, people haven't seen you for days -"

Stanford scooted back a little on his seat in an automatic attempt to get some distance away from the man. " _Who_ are you, exactly?"

"It's me, Toby Determined, editor of the Gravity Falls Gossiper!" At least, the man didn't seem offended about being 'forgotten'. From the look of things, he actually seemed used to Ford's dismissal. "I'm working on a feature, actually, and I was hopin' I could ask you a few questions - "

"I'm afraid you've got the wrong man - "

"Well, you're Stanford Pines, aren't you?" Determined exclaimed, a little bit too loudly, and the diner went quiet.

"I am," Ford admitted quietly, but it came out uncomfortably loud in the sudden silence. "But - "

That seemed to have been the wrong thing to admit. Determined drew even closer, a glint in his half-lidded eyes. "Well, heck, I already got a few feature titles thought up for ya! How's this, 'Local Hero Leads Rebellion Against Triangular Overlord' - "

'Leads rebellion'? He blinked, and a second later, before Stanford could mentally connect those particular dots, Determined was shoved aside by a wild-eyed man who drew a bit too close to be comfortable. Yeesh, what was with the lack of personal space in this town?

"Stan Pines, I just wanna thank ya for lookin' after my daughter during that whole mess - " The man started, but Stanford had already heard enough. He turned away from him immediately, teeth gritted, only to be met by another hopeful face, and another, and another -

"Mr. Mystery -"

"What are your thoughts on - "

" - idea when the Mystery Shack - "

" - our _hero_ , Mr. Pines, and I do hope - "

"Soos," Stanford tried, unnerved by the gathering crowd of people in front of their small booth, "a little – help - "

The handyman nodded resolutely. "I got you, other Mr. Pines! Hey everybody!" He shouted loudly, momentarily diverting all attention to him. "...Uh, who wants t' see me lick my elbow?" Soos made a valiant attempt, and missed.

A dozen pair of eyes fixated back on Stanford, who swallowed almost audibly. He could make a hasty retreat, he supposed, but it would involve missing out on a quality breakfast and leaving the diner as empty-handed as he had entered. Perhaps, he could return later, when less of Stanley's – fan's were present -

"Shame on all of ya, botherin' a man before he's even had breakfast!" Came a familiar high, nasal voice that, under the circumstances, sounded like the sound of an angel. Lazy Susan cleared a path through the crowd, physically swatting at the people around her with a rather grimy looking broom. "Get, get!"

Slowly, the mob dissipated. Some were shoo'ed back to their own tables, where they neglected their cooling meals to stare and whisper at the increasingly uncomfortable Stanford. Others, like Toby Determined, were ushered out of the diner with sour looks on their faces.

Satisfied, Lazy Susan gave the two a wink and disappeared momentarily into the kitchen. She returned with two large plates, almost completely obscured by the incredible amount of food they held. Sausages glistened in the daylight, hashbrowns sizzled on the plate, and Stanford was suddenly struck by how distinct his home dimension's cuisine was from – every other, really. and there was something reassuring about knowing that this meal would not try to eat him back.

The moment his plate was set in front of him, he dove in, savoring tastes that he had thought he would never taste again, trying half-heartedly _not_ to eat like – some ravenous beast, but not particularly concerned nonetheless. It had just been - too long since he had had a decent meal, one that he didn't have to check for substances poisonous to carbon-based lifeforms, or scarf down while keeping an eye out for the very real monsters in the dark. Or pick out bits of Stan's body hair from.

After what felt like minutes, his plate was empty, scraped clean of – practically everything. Stanford put down his fork carefully, and looked up into the identical stunned stares of Soos and Lazy Susan. He swallowed, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. His – perception of time _hadn't_ been skewed, it seemed.

"It was – very good," Ford said uncertainly.

For a moment, Lazy Susan gave him an appraising look. "Well!" She said finally, shaking her head ruefully. "I'll get another one comin' up."

Once she was gone, Soos exclaimed in what sounded like genuine shock. "Woah. Other Mr. Pines, that was amazing!"

"Well," he said, a bit weakly, "I suppose it has been a while since... You have to understand, this is not normal behavior for me. I don't usually eat this fast – or this - "

Soos held up a hand. "Other Mr. Pines, I have been to many a Ramirez family reunions in my life. I've seen worse." A shadow fell over his face and his expression turned grim. "...Things that cannot be unseen." Then cheerfully, face normal again, "You do you, dood."

"I – Thank you, Soos." Vaguely confused – was this how people talked in this day and age? - but reassured by the other man's message of acceptance, Stanford gave Soos a weak smile.

Lazy Susan returned ten minutes later with a second hefty plate. "You're not Stan Pines, are ya?" She said conversationally as she set it down.

Stanford dropped his fork, all appetite suddenly gone. With the most dignity he could muster, he said steadily, "I don't know what you're -"

"Hun, I've known that man for thirty years, and I've never seen him pass up a free pot of coffee before. But I have to say, that's a downright _uncanny_ resemblance ya got there." The woman squinted at him. "Still felt like I've seen you somewhere before. What's your name, hun?"

"My name is Stanford Pines," he said defeatedly, "and no, you are correct. I'm not the man you know by that name. The circumstances behind that is – admittedly a bit strange, perhaps unbelievable, but I assure you - "

"He's Mr. Pines' long-lost twin brother!" Soos interrupted easily. "He got stuck in another dimension for like, thirty years, but Mr. Pines finally got 'im back a couple weeks ago."

There was a moment of stunned silence as Ford mentally reconsidered his life decisions that had lead him up to this moment. "Oh!" Lazy Susan said brightly. "Well, why didn't ya just say that in the first place? And here, I was wonderin' if them aliens already started replacin' people in this town."

He blinked, stunned by her easy acceptance of the frankly ridiculous sounding truth. "Yes, I'm – I'm Stan's twin. Ma'am, you said you've known my brother for – thirty years?"

"Sure I did! Heck, I was part 'f the very first group of visitors to the Mystery Shack! Think it was called somethin' different back then – huh, that must've been right after he stopped doin' his weird experiments out there in those woods."

Ford coughed. "Is there – anything that stood out to you, about his behavior then?" He tried, not particularly sure what kind of questions he _could_ ask. "Or -" He paused. "There was a – car crash around that time, was there not? I know it was in the papers, at the very least - "

"Oh, _that_." Lazy Susan shook her head. "Unfortunate business, all around. Burned down a whole patch of forest off the side of the road heading out south. Sure, it's been a good thirty years since. But our town is a small town, see? We don't get none 'f that kind of business. Cut brakes!" She shivered a little. "Like somethin' outta a movie, that."

Cut brakes... "Did my brother act – oddly, after that? Anxiously, perhaps?" Ford swallowed. "Guiltily?"

She gave him a blank look. "Well, I _suppose_. But once that news came up in the papers, everyone was actin' a bit off for a few days or so. Only other thing... he stopped comin' in with that nervous-lookin' friend of his. The one with the big nose."

"...Nervous-looking friend?"

Lazy Susan squinted. "Can't remember the name. Entire memory's a blank. Strange!" She paused. "Say, what's with all these questions? Is Stan in any kind of trouble?" She suddenly looked very suspicious. "If that's so, then forget 'bout everything I just said. Stan Pines is a morally upright resident of this -" She paused. "He's a resident of this town, anyways."

"No, Stan's not in any trouble or danger," Ford said quickly. "He just – drove off on his own, and I was looking for clues as to where he might have gone." And, just as importantly... _why_ he had gone.

"Well, I don't see how any of that could have helped, but I wish you the best of luck. Though... " She thought for a bit. "When ya do, let him know that the whole town's interested t' know when the Shack is openin' up again. The mayor wants to make it a town landmark!"

"Yes, yes. Of course," he said, a bit distractedly. Then, Ford hesitated. "That car accident thirty years ago... where did you say that was, again? Something about the road heading out south?"

"That's right. Right off the left side of that road. Soos here knows where it is, doesn't he?" The handyman nodded.

Stanford's mind was made up. "Then that will be our next destination," he said firmly, standing up. "Thank you for your help, ma'am."

"But – other Mr. Pines, you didn't finish your - "

He was already halfway out the door, having pushed his way past waitresses and other customers, including a rather chubby white-haired boy who had been staring at his hands in wide-eyed disbelief. Soos and Lazy Susan watched him disappear.

There was a long pause. Soos looked glumly at his uneaten pancakes. "Can we, uh, get these to go?"

Soos stared at the forest. "Y'know," he said contemplatively, "there's somethin' different. Can't put a finger on it, though."

"But – this _is_ the place?" Ford asked, unbuckling his seatbelt and loosening his death grip on the assist handle. "No more driving?" If there was, he was doubtful that he would survive the trip.

"Yep, no doubt about it! Y'see those trees over there, they're a lot smaller than the others 'cause they're so much younger - "

"What trees?"

"Those trees, right there -" Soos put down his finger slowly. "Oh, uh."

There was a moment of terrible silence. A beat later, Stanford swore loudly and practically jumped out of the car. His heartbeat thundering in his chest and a cold pit opening in the depth of his stomach, he jogged to the edge of the forest and stared at the destruction before him. Dozens of trees broken and smashed into pieces of various sizes, from wood chips to almost whole trunks.

This damage was not the work of individual tools, Ford thought to himself. This was the result of a blunt force plowing through the forest at high speeds.

This was the work of a car, and it had happened recently. _Very_ recently.

"Woah," Soos said quietly beside him. "This is so weird. How did no one notice this before?"

Ford didn't reply. Instead, with no further hesitation, he began to make his way inwards, following the path of destruction with a lump in his throat. Twigs and branches snapped harmlessly under his heavy boots and scratched futilely at his pant legs. Distantly, he heard the heavy footsteps of Soos following after him.

As they moved deeper into the dark forest, Stanford's subconscious alarm bells began to ring. _He didn't want to move forwards, of course not, and the best idea was to head back_ – he shook his head, and took his next steps. But the uncomfortable feeling persisted, the strange weight of a heavy gaze sending chills down his spine.

Though it was bright noon outside, the majority of light had been scattered and blocked by centuries worth of tree growth. But there was just enough to see his immediate surroundings and – most importantly – for Stanford to notice how the pattern of destruction had – changed. The broken pieces of wood at the entrance of the woods were evidently new, still sticky with the sap that was a tree's lifeblood.

But now, the hunks of wood under his feet were dry and brittle. Some pieces were blackened and turned to ash under his touch. The tall trees around him were scarred with fire of years long past, green branch nubs sprouting from underneath the darkened bark.

And then, he saw it. A familiar burgundy red glinted in the distance, a shade of color so different from the muted greens and browns of the surrounding forest that Ford could never have missed it, no matter how much he wished he could.

But – Stanley couldn't have -

"That's Mr. Pines' car," Soos said weakly, startling Ford out of his horrified trance. "What's it doing here?"

There was no time for thoughts. His brother could be dying – could be _dead –_ all while Stanford had spent the entire day – doing what? Trying to find yet another mystery where none existed?

He ran through the words, brushing past branches that reached out as if to stop him, and lunged for the driver's seat window.

" _Stanley!_ "

Ford froze. There was no one behind the wheel. The car doors were unlocked and he swallowed before he stuck his head in, only to see nothing but yellowed receipts and discarded food wrappers.

No, his brother was not here, which was simultaneously an indescribable relief - and the worst thing he could have anticipated, because. If Stanley wasn't here, was without his _car_...

Where was he?

"Um, other Mr. Pines," Soos said quietly, with a note of seriousness that sounded strange from him. "You – Ya gotta take a look at this."

He pointed at the hood of the car, and breath caught in Stanford's throat as he took in the sight of the ridiculous, _familiar_ red fez perched upon it. He reached out a single hand to touch it, almost as if to confirm its existence – but snapped his hand back at the last second.

"Soos," Ford said hoarsely, "you take it."

Then, he took a step back, taking measured breaths.

The Stanmobile was pristine, its coat of burgundy paint completely unscratched. There were no dents in the car at all, even though it had evidently smashed its way through at least a dozen meters of thick forest to get to this location. It was impossible and almost eerie, seeing the car amidst all the destruction of both past and present.

And, there was something about these trees...

"Other Mr. Pines," Soos asked, eyes seemingly unable to leave the fez in his hands, "what happened to Mr. Pines?"

Stanford put a single trembling hand on the tree bark and traced the symbol that had been carved upon it with his fingers. They were on every tree, he could tell then, reaching as far as his eyes could see.

This symbol was a familiar one, with its single circle and double diamonds. And... they weren't carved, he realized, feeling suddenly nauseous.

They were branded.

"I don't know, Soos," Ford said heavily.


	8. Chapter 7

_[A/N: Underlines are meant to be strikethroughs.]_

* * *

 _Gravity Falls, February, 1982_

"Lemme tell ya the truth here, Fidds. I shared a room with the man for fifteen years. Fingers ain't the only thing he has six of."

Stan cut off at the approach of their waitress, a vaguely familiar looking brunette with a lazy eye he was pretty sure he caused her.

"Hey, how 'bout some more coffee right here? Yeah, that's it - thanks, toots." He gave her a wink and she giggled all the way back to the kitchen. Oh yeah – even disguised as his nerdier, obviously less handsome twin, Stan Pines definitely still had it.

Across the table, Fiddleford shook his head slowly, a helpless smile on his face. "Nice try, Stanley, but you aren't foolin' me."

He put his hands up in surrender. "What are ya talkin' about? There's nothin' to lie about."

"You aren't the only one here who's roomed with Stanford, remember? The man doesn't have six ni -" The man cut off, a slight blush appearing on his face. "Six of anythin' other than fingers on a hand."

"Geez, harsh crowd," Stan muttered half-jokingly with an exaggerated sigh. "Know any of my brother's other college friends, Fidds? Maybe one of _them_ will fall for it."

Fiddleford smiled weakly. "Ah, no – just me, I'm afraid."

So maybe Ford hadn't changed as much as Stan thought. Big shot poindexter or not, he just couldn't imagine his brother as the life of the party – _any_ party. But Stan had to admit, he was glad that the one friend Ford _did_ have was someone like Fiddleford Hadron McGucket.

It had been less than a week since the man had knocked on his door in search of Stan's missing twin and subsequently agreed to help, but Stan had already realized that Fiddleford was... well, put simply enough, a good guy. A genuinely good guy, which was – incredibly rare, a fact that a decade living on the streets had made Stan painfully aware of. He just – _cared,_ maybe a bit too much at times.

Other than the whole... trying to shoot him thing. But hell, Fiddleford had come back to help in the end, and Stan had forgiven people who shot at him with _real_ guns for far less.

"So, uh," Stan said, changing the topic because... _that_ one sure wasn't going anywhere good. "To be honest, I don't get much 'f that technobabble you've been tellin' me. Stuff like that... well, it just goes in one side and comes out the other for me."

He shrugged somewhat apologetically – Stan was very aware that he wasn't exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer. More like a spoon, really.

"Not a problem," Fiddleford reassured. "It's some complex astrophysics for the most part. But, hm... in layman's terms..." He thought for a bit. "Tell ya the truth, I don't think it'll be too long 'til we get that thing fixed. A month or two, maybe. I still got most of the blueprints with me, so that'll speed things up a whole lot."

"A month or two..." He let out a slow exhale. "Well, that's a hell 'f a lot faster than I could manage on my own. Heck, I wouldn't even know how to start with that thing."

"Still," the other man offered hesitantly, "Stanley, you have to understand. For Stanford... even a month could be too long."

Right. Fiddleford had mentioned the other side of the portal from time to time, but the circumstances had never aligned so that Stan could be comfortable about asking just what exactly was there – and really, how the man had seen it in the first place.

"About that... " Stan swallowed. "When ya came over the first time, when you still thought I was Ford... I never got the chance to ask you 'bout some stuff."

Fiddleford tensed at that, but Stan forged on. "You mentioned some guy. Uh, Bill or something. Who's that, some old flame of Ford's?"

"An old flame -" The other man snorted, then broke into – almost hysterical giggles.

Stan stared blankly at him. "Uh -"

"No," Fiddleford said at last. "Well... I sure hope not. But with all the weirdness goin' on... " He shook his head. "Stanley, you've – seen the supernatural activity in this town. I'm sure Stanford wrote plenty on them in that journal of his."

"Yeah, sure." Not that Stan was particularly happy about it. Rats and roaches were bad enough – but dealing with little bearded men was not what he had signed up for, coming up here. And there was something about the surrounding forest... but Stan trusted his instincts far too much to venture in. "This... 'Bill.' He a part of that?"

"In a way. Bill is -" The man paused. "Stanford always called him a muse."

"...Uh -"

"A source of artistic inspiration," Fiddleford added quickly. "Though in this case, more of a scientific - "

"Nah, I got that part." Sure, Stan had never been much for school. But reading and books – the _good_ ones, about adventure and exploring the world instead of numbers and boring old facts – that wasn't school. "But aren't they supposed t' be... ladies? Attractive ones? I mean, with a name like Bill -"

"Bill was not a woman. Nor," the man said gravely, "was he a muse."

"Vampire? Werewolf? Gimme a hint here, Fidds, I'm not obsessed with this stuff like Ford is -"

Fiddleford adjusted his glasses. "You have to understand, I don't know this for sure. I never interacted much with – him myself. But from what I've seen -" He swallowed loudly. "Bill is a demon."

Stan stared blankly at him for a long moment. "...Demon," he said, a bit skeptically. "What, like fire and brimstone demon? Ya gotta understand, Ford and I bein' raised in the house we were, we ain't too familiar with the whole -"

"I don't know much about him. Like I said, I never saw him. Never talked t' him, not after - " The other man cut off suddenly. "All I know is that – he's some kind of malevolent force and his plans... his _plans_ -" He shook his head. "I believe he means to destroy this world."

Stan waited for a punchline that never came, and then let out a deep breath. "Well, damn."

What else could he say to that? This... world destruction thing was not what he had expected, coming up here to Oregon. But then again, what part of the past month or so _had_ he expected? "This – You're not messin' with me, right?" He asked, just to be sure. "Cuz I gotta tell ya the truth, when I think end of the world, I don't see that as an, uh, _actual_ thing."

At the man's solemn nod, he put a hand to his forehead. "How the _hell_ did ya two nerds get wrapped up in somethin' like _this_?"

And Fiddleford told him, a long, convoluted tale of overblown hopes and demonic possession - and by the end, Stan was tempted to just _laugh._

A literal deal with the devil. Ford, _really_?

"Yeesh," he said instead, shaking his head in disbelief. "That's – Hell. At least I know what I'm getting' into now, I guess. So, that portal is supposed to, uh, end the world. _That's_ what my brother is on the other side of."

"I don't suppose you have any second thoughts...?"

Stan snorted. Fiddleford sighed. "I thought so."

"...Fidds," Stan asked then, some half-forgotten memory popping into his head. "Didn't ya say you saw the other side of that portal?"

The man froze.

"So, uh, what's there?" Stan forged forward. "I mean, I know ya said Ford wouldn't last – too long, and sure - he's a bit 'f a weedy nerd, but he's got a mean left hook -"

"That's... not it." Fiddleford swallowed. "Stanley, are you – by any chance – familiar with the works of Lovecraft? Or the concept of an eldritch abomination?"

"Never read any 'f them myself, but Ford mentioned them once or twice. Eldritch, uh, whatevers – they're monsters, right?"

"...In a way," the other man allowed, eyes dark. "But the nature of an eldritch abomination is that it is ultimately... alien. Inconceivable. Incomprehensible. Monsters are an inherently human concept. These... are not. How can you fight something that exists outside of the laws of reality? Just _seeing_ them -"

He cut off, eyes distant.

Stan wasn't sure he wrapped his head around that, but sure. "So what, those are what's on the other side?"

It was as if he hadn't said anything at all. "It was like I was starin' inta a void, Stanley," Fiddleford continued dazedly, his accent getting thicker, his pupils dilating.

"Uh -"

"The whole universe jus' laid out before me, an' I – I _knew_ things. _Lots_ of things," he stressed. "And I – I saw th' end, when gravity fell an' when earth became sky - "

"Geez, Fidds, what are ya - "

"But they were lookin' back at me!" He shouted with a full-body shudder, his eyes wide and wild, pupils single black pinpricks. Stan realized then that Fiddleford was completely and utterly out of it. People at nearby tables were already turning to stare, and a waitress behind the counter was pointing at them while talking to a pretty beefy, mean-looking guy.

Stan gulped.

"Six eyes – six sights - "

Out of options and not wanting to be banned from the only restaurant in the town, Stan swore and threw a glass full of iced water in the other man's face. Fiddleford blinked and spluttered, but his eyes were normal again.

"What the hell was that?" Stan whispered after a long moment, once it was clear that the other man had come back to his senses. "The mutterin' and the shakin' and -"

The other man wiped at his face with a handful of napkins. "...Humans can't make sense of those things," he said wetly. "But... _they_ can't make sense of humans either. I, I tried to make myself forget, but it's still there - it's all still _there_ -" He went quiet abruptly.

Stan wasn't sure what to make of that.

"Fidds," he said slowly, "I'm a simple man. This is all confusin' as hell, so it, uh, helps if ya put this in simple terms. Those eldritch whatchamajigs are bad news, I get that. But uh."

Stan paused. "Since ya mentioned the whole 'end of the world' thing – I'm guessin' we don't want any of them over here. And that Bill guy – he _does_."

"Bit of an – understatement there," Fiddleford muttered, wiping his glasses with part of his shirt.

"But I mean, what do they _want_? Everything wants _somethin'_ , even – hulking alien monsters, or whatever they are."

The other man was quiet.

"Fidds?"

Fiddleford looked at him, eyes haunted.

"Stanley, that is something I try not to think too hard about."

* * *

 _Gravity Falls, August, 2012_

In retrospect, allowing a demon full control of one's body had not been one of Ford's better ideas. Allowing a demon full control of one's body _and_ complete discretion in his actions… had very likely been his worst.

To this day, Ford still did not know the full extent of what Bill had done while in his body. The demon had directed much of the construction of the lab himself, and after his betrayal, Ford had scoured his house from top to bottom, destroying as much of Bill's additions as he could. He had taunted, or intimidated, or did _something_ to Fiddleford that had set the man constantly on edge. The fact that Ford managed to keep willfully blind to his friend's increasingly desperate warnings remained one of his greatest regrets.

The red-hot symbol located on the side of one of the larger pieces of machinery in the lab had been one of Bill's additions. It had been one of the more insignificant requests, especially compared to the other offerings his 'muse' had demanded, and Ford had never thought much of it. He had assumed that it was a symbol with some deeper meaning in whatever extradimensional society Bill had originated from.

Then came the fight, when Ford had - _branded_ his brother permanently. He could still remember the brief stab of shock as he realized what he had done, the sickening smell of burning flesh and cloth, and then - the cold regret and guilt that had made him stagger backwards, frantically stammering apologies.

But, what exactly did that symbol mean? There had been a reason behind everything Bill had done, and the demon and his brother had, in hindsight, a rather odd relation. How was it possible that Stanley had lived in this town for thirty years, surrounded by Bill's images and influences, and not had _any_ idea who or what Bill Cipher was? The man was oblivious in some ways, yes, but not _that_ oblivious. And, while Bill clearly knew of Stanley's existence, he had made no direct moves against him.

Yet, whatever the implications of the sigil, Bill had not taken advantage of it during Weirdmageddon - even when Stanley had been leading the resistance against him. It was only now that the old brand seemed to hold any significance at all.

And that there was the rub: clearly, Stanley had known this would happen.

He had made the call to Shermy and waited for the twins to leave for Piedmont. He had confronted Ford, clearly expecting to be told to leave, and had been so - shocked, so terrified when Ford had told him to stay. And then, he had left anyways.

Now, his brother was missing - and the sigil that Ford had branded on him, however accidentally, had something to do with it.

Ford licked his fingers before flipping each page of his brother's journal - or, to be more accurate, his diary. Because it _was_ , really - each entry was written familiarly and oddly conversational, as if speaking to a close friend. It was clearly written _for_ someone to read, because there were odd emphases on certain events and, at points, extensive, unnecessary justifications of his own actions - and yet it had lied under those floorboards for decades, moldering away.

 _What had changed?_ He wanted to ask, but that was a mystery that could wait until - after.

Instead, Ford quietly read through the dozens of repeated mentions of bad dreams, _odd_ dreams, with growing alarm. Dreams, the subconscious domain - that was _Bill's_ domain, his and the other creatures of the Mindscape. It would make sense that Bill would have made contact with Stanley - after all, they had a common goal, even if the demon's ulterior motives were quite different.

But dozens of these dreams and without any mention of a triangular, one-eyed creature… up until his final moments of hubris, Bill was an efficient creature that would have gained no great enjoyment from this kind of taunting, especially when Stanley clearly had no idea what was going on. This was an out of character, disorganized, almost _confused_ approach, as if Bill had no clear idea what he wanted from Stanley.

Unless, this wasn't Bill. The green eyed motif didn't fit, unless the demon was attempting some kind of symbolic reference to Stanford's relationship with his brother -

Ford shook his head with a groan. Now, he was stretching it.

Regardless, there was some kind of connection here between the dreams, the brand, and Stanley's disappearance. If only there was someone who had known his brother well enough during that time who he could ask. Even that waitress had known his brother only superficially. Maybe Soos might -

Then he saw the next entry, and he knew.

* * *

 _So uh, good news. That friend of yo Ford's came back - Fiddleford, I think his name is. He says he's gonna help, but he looks pretty frazzled. He's got a whole folder of these papers I can't make sense of, but as long as he can, I've got no complaints._

 _Maybe I actually have a chance now, but I've got no idea what comes… after that. What I can say to make you forgive me. Hopefully I'll figure it out before then._

 _Sixer, I didn't mean to do it. Any of it._

* * *

When that rippling hole in reality had opened up scant feet in front of him, all those weeks ago when he was still trapped in the other dimension, Stanford had allowed himself a few seconds to - gawk, really, because after thirty long years, he no longer harbored any hopes of rescue.

Not that he had any in the first place, really.

And then, he was furious. There was only one person who could have fixed the portal, and that was his brother. His foolish, headstrong twin brother, who had evidently ignored Ford's copious warnings in order to assuage any guilt he felt about _pushing_ him into an interdimensional portal.

So he had made his way through without second thought. He had buried the heavy emotions under righteous anger - the feelings that had bubbled up with the words that had lumped up in his throat, the moment he saw his brother for the first time in thirty years and realized suddenly that they had become old strangers.

Stanford had dealt with those agents, introduced himself to the children, finally talked to Stanley about the elephant in the room, and -

\- and it was only after, as Ford stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling from his threadbare couch, that he had asked himself a very important question.

 _How?_

The only person who could have fixed that portal was his brother, and Stanley hardly had the drive or knowledge necessary to do so. He hadn't even graduated _high school_ , for God's sake.

Of course, there was the possibility that his brother had somehow self-taught himself the complex astrophysics and quantum theory that was necessary to operate the portal, but there had always been an inimitable, inhuman aspect to the portal's construction. As galling as it was to admit, even Stanford could not have completed it without Bill's help.

It had been an uncomfortable question, one that Ford did not know the answer to - and didn't _want_ to know the answer to, really. The most likely possibility was that it had been a minor malfunction that had shut the portal down - some kind of blown fuse, perhaps - that did not require any extensive knowledge, one that even Stanley could have fixed with time.

Well, now he knew.

Fiddleford… now, that was a name that hurt to think about. His best - and in hindsight, possibly _only_ \- friend throughout college, and the man whom Ford had driven away inadvertently because of his own obliviousness. Back then, he had assumed that Fiddleford was - jealous, perhaps, of his fascination with Bill.

Oh, how wrong he had been.

The man might have driven himself into insanity, but Stanford had been the one to set him on that path. If only he could have paused that night and - listened to Fiddleford, talked it out, explained the misunderstandings and sorted it all out… Things would be very different. Maybe together, the two of them could have stopped Bill's plans in their tracks.

But… he had never expected Fiddleford to come back. The last he remembered, his old partner had cut off all contact and even… went to some extreme methods to forget the horrors he had seen. Ford had to admit that he could not blame him.

Ford was sorry - deeply, unspeakably so - but though Dipper and Mabel had informed him excitedly of his old friend's marked recovery… he could not bring himself to go see him. He knew he didn't deserve Fiddleford's forgiveness - not when he had cost him his future, his youth, his _son_. He also knew that there was no way he could make up for it all.

Stanford Pines was used to running away from his mistakes. But he glanced down at the entry again, at the scribbled out phrases that he couldn't make out for the life of him, and…

...maybe he couldn't, any longer.

* * *

 _[A/N: I do think that Fiddleford and Stan would get along really well in a Mystery Trio and/or otherwise canon divergent setting, because Fidds is both a nerd like Ford and a genuinely good person (though his good will towards others... is sometimes taken to the extreme. Sure, you think you're helping, but a cult?) and Fidds has Soos-levels of intuitions, I like to think._

 _I had another scene originally planned for this chapter, but I figured I should stop ending on cliff-hangers. But, Fiddauthor reunion set for next chapter - as well as certain past complications._

 _By the way - if anyone wants to talk about GF, the finale, this fic, or - anything really (or just to get a daily dose of GF reblogs) I'm dubsdeedubs on tumblr (because WDW was taken, and apparently I'm not creative enough to think of another name.)]_


	9. Chapter 8

Gravity Falls, August, 2012

Fiddleford made a nervous, aborted gesture toward his face, as if trying to run his hands through a beard that was no longer there. He looked distinctly uncomfortable in his ill-fitting clothes, hunched over as if ready to scamper away at any moment. He did not meet Ford's wide eyes.

Stanford's six-fingered hands clenched bloodless white around the journal, and he found that he could not look away.

There was a loud cough and a creak as Tate quickly shut the door behind him, evidently desperate to escape the suddenly stifling atmosphere of the room. Ford wished, somewhat inanely, he could follow him. He cleared his throat and tried to speak through the lump in his throat.

But Fiddleford beat him to the punch. "Yer - yer th' real Stanford?" He picked at his hands, fingernails scraping against dry skin, oddly worried. "Not th' other one. Not - Mr. Mystery."

"...Yes," Ford replied weakly, trying to find the words that seemed to have fled his mind. "The other one - that was my brother Stanley. I told you about him, before all of this, but -" He forced himself to pause. Rambling was pointless - what he needed to do now was say what he needed to say. "Fiddleford, I -"

"My -" Fiddleford fidgeted. "My Stanford?"

It was as if his words had turned to ashes in his mouth. Ford realized, with a sudden jolt of shock, that he could see his old friend and partner in the strange old man before him.

He knew about what had happened to Fiddleford, of course. Though their accounts were clearly colored by childhood innocence and naivety, Dipper and Mabel had told him just enough to put together the pieces about the origin of the Society of the Blind Eye and the strange going-ons in Gravity Falls, shortly before he had secluded himself permanently in his home. He had even - he thought he had seen the man during the Weirdmageddon, hunched over and long bearded, attacking Bill's allied demons with an almost bestial ferocity (and - a banjo?)

He had also been told of the man's slow recovery, and it was true that the Fiddleford before him was a far-cry from the 'Old Man McGucket' (as the townspeople called him) Ford had seen during the battle against Bill. But he was also nothing like the well-spoken, quietly intelligent young man that Ford had known, back when they had both been bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, positively jumping to take on a world of endless mysteries to be solved.

But by all accounts, the Fiddleford that Ford had known had not existed for a - long, long time. Surely, that Fiddleford wouldn't have started some kind of - cult that forcibly wiped memories. After all, he had been the voice of reason within their partnership - the one who had vetoed the (in hindsight) more ill-thought out research proposals and was able to see the consequences of their progress with unclouded eyes.

Yet… he felt queasy as he remembered Fiddleford that night, his crazed rantings, the wild look of fear in his frantic eyes. Something had changed him for the worst, and Ford knew that it was his fault that Fiddleford was… the way he was.

He dragged one shaking hand through his hair. "It - It's me, Fiddleford." The other man stared back him, a tad blankly, and Ford tried, "...How much do you remember?"

"Eh, those memories of mine - sure, they've been gone fer thirty-odd years. But ever since those lil' fellers helped me out, they've been rushin' back faster than ya can say 'Toot-toot McBumbersnazzle!'" Fiddleford was - beaming, the previous tension in his frame gone, and that was enough evidence for Ford to conclude that Fiddleford clearly did not remember everything. If he did, smiling would be the complete opposite of what he would be doing. "I know lots 'f things now! Didja know there's a kind 'f fish that can swim up your ureth -"

Ford knew where this was going. "About us, I mean," he said quickly.

The other man blinked at him obliviously. There was a bead of drool collecting at the corner of his slack, open mouth. Ford sighed, letting go of a hope that he really - shouldn't have held in the first place.

"We - went to college together, thirty years ago. We worked together, here in Gravity Falls, and we were - " He swallowed down the words he really wanted to say. "...Friends. The best of friends. Though… That might be a bit one-sided on your part. I… wasn't a good friend to you, in the end. I've done some things that were -"

Fiddleford scratched at his bulbous red nose. "Always told ya that durn triangle fella wasn't t' be trusted," he huffed.

Ford froze. The other man stared back at him, almost innocently.

He closed his mouth with a click. "You do remember," Ford said dully, a hinting suspicion arising in his gut. "The portal, everything Bill did in my body -"

"Too many sides, that's what I think!" Fiddleford interrupted carelessly, "Now, a circle - "

Ford ignored his old friend's confused (?) ramblings and leaned forward, covering Fiddleford's frantic hands with one of his own. The other man stilled at that, an unreadable expression flitting across his face, far too fast for him to even guess at what it was, and went abruptly quiet.

"Fiddleford," he said slowly, "I'm sorry."

For a sudden, startled moment, there was no trace at all of insanity in the other man's face. His clear eyes pinpointed Ford's with alarming intensity.

The breath caught in Ford's throat, but he forged on regardless. "I should have trusted you. I should have put you above him. I was… foolish to believe what he told me. Blinded by my own arrogance. When he said I was - special, that I was one in a thousand, in a million -" His voice broke. "Iwanted to believe. I was - seduced by that vision of success - of acceptance that he promised me, that I -"

"But you were already accepted, Stanford," Fiddleford said quietly with only the slightest twinge of an accent, his voice clear and cutting and terribly sane. "You were already loved."

"I -" He shook his head, images coming into his head unbidden of the younger Fiddleford, who had given up so much - too much - for his sake. Of Stanley, who had always been there giving more than he got, that Ford had tried to convince himself that his brother was only doing it for his own benefit. Ford swallowed hard. "...I know. Far too late to make a difference, but… I understand that now."

It was easy back then to fall to the allure of Bill's promises of power and easy friendship. Even when everything he had really wanted had always been within his reach, they were tempered by human faults, and Ford had been too fearful of failure to accept that - not when his muse had been at his side, tempting him with a (twisted) perfection.

"I should never have told you to come," he said with finality. "You could have kept working on those - 'personal computers' of yours. You could have been -" Ford swallowed. "I cost you your youth. Your future. Your family. I did this -" he gestured at Fiddleford's bent frame, a tad weakly. " - to you. And… I know there is not much I can do to rectify that. I can't give you your life back, and I don't expect - forgiveness, but -"

"Ya weren't the one who did this to me, Stanford." Fiddleford said, cutting him off without hesitation. His head was lowered again, but Ford could just make out the tight grimace on his face. "I did this t' myself. I din't want t' remember, so I made somethin' so that I didn't have to. It's a - It's easier not t' remember."

He raised his head, and though the heavy accent had returned to his voice, his expression was clearly lucid. "Stanford, ya got nothing t' be sorry for. Can't say trustin' that Cipher fella was one of yer better decisions. Or that I wasn't hurt that you kept all that demon business from me. But all this…" He gestured down at himself a tad ruefully. "I was the one who ran away from my problems, see? Ran 'til I didn't even know myself."

Fiddleford smiled mirthlessly. "The lil' fellas - Dipper and Mabel, they told ya about how I was livin' before, din't they? Tell ya the truth, Stanford. Spendin' decades of my life in the dump, marryin' a raccoon, bein' the laughingstock of the town… can't say I'm much pleased about that. But buryin' my head from reality, pretending nothin' was wrong, not even knowin' that I had problems… that was easy. Easier than facin' the end days, or realizing what I made myself into, or -" He cut off. "Or you seein' what I've become."

Ford had sat wordlessly through the entire confession, mentally shaking his head in denial. "If I had believed you when you first warned me about Bill - if I had talked to you after you left - "

"I made my own decision, Stanford." Fiddleford gave him a wry smile. "An' look at what I am now. Are ya ashamed of me? I know I am."

"I am looking," he said roughly, recognizing the familiar steady undercurrent of shame in his old friend's voice - one that did not belong there. "And ashamed is the last thing I am." His old friend gave him a look of disbelief. "The biggest mistake I ever made was pushing you away, Fiddleford," Ford admitted. "Please - don't make the same decision I did."

Fiddleford stared at him with clear, wide eyes, utterly speechless. Ford dragged a hand through his hair. "I admit… this was hardly what we expected for our futures, back then. But, Fiddleford - you've done much more than I could have, in your position. Dipper and Mabel told me about how you saved them from the Society of the Blind Eye. And during the Weirdmageddon, I saw you out there fighting Bill's demons -"

"Y-Ya did?" Fiddleford stammered in surprise, a light blush dusting his cheeks. "Why, I mean… that ain't much -"

"Fiddleford, I know how - tempting it is to hide from one's problems," he said, already thinking about that decade of - first frequent, then occasional phone-calls, with a caller who hung up before Ford could get a single word in.

About how he could never muster up the courage to call back.

"But… You did fight back, Fiddleford. Even after a year of living with me hosting that demon in my body, even after the horrors you saw on the other side of that portal."

Ford paused momentarily, eyes darkening as he remembered for the first time since Fiddleford opened his mouth why he had come in the first place.

"Not only that, but… you - came back for me, didn't you? After all I did to drive you away... You helped my brother repair the portal and bring me back, even though you knew what were on the other..."

He trailed off. Fiddleford's somewhat loopy grin was replaced suddenly by an utterly unreadable expression, as quickly as if some internal switch had been flipped in the man before him.

"At least, that was what Stanley wrote," Ford added quickly, not sure where he had misspoken - or indeed, if he even had. "If there was anything more to that, I don't -"

"I'm sorry, Stanford," Fiddleford in a quiet voice that nonetheless cut through his words with knife-like precision. "I couldn't stop 'im."

Ford blinked, somewhat taken aback. "Well, of course I'm not blaming you for Stanley bringing me back through the portal. ...Though, I admit things might have been quite a bit simpler if the interdimensional rift was never formed. But we were still able to defeat Bill in the end. Why… as much as it had endangered the world… selfishly, I'm quite glad to be back in this dimension. Those were a," he swallowed, thinking of the decades he had spent surviving on the edges of alien societies. "...a rather difficult thirty years on the other side."

But his friend didn't seem to register any of his words, a familiar blankness in his expression as his gaze bore onto a spot slightly over Ford's left shoulder. "I could've - I should've done it then, Stanford. It wasn't too late for him, I don't think."

...Something was wrong here, bigger than he could see. "Fiddleford -" Ford reached out a single hand to place over Fiddleford's shaking shoulder, smiling weakly against the sick twist of deja vu he felt in the pit of his belly - back to that night, three decades ago. "Get it together, man. Too late for what?"

"Stanford, I didn't know," Fiddleford told him earnestly. "Why, I only remembered - just a couple 'f days ago. I must've wiped the knowledge outta my head dozens of times in the past. I couldn't believe it back when th' memory first came back."

"Believe - what?" Ford raised an eyebrow. "I'm afraid you're losing me, Fiddleford."

"I said to myself, that ain't possible, Fiddleford!" The other man said, voice hushed, as if Ford had said nothing at all. "But -" Fiddleford shook his head. "I'm - not as brave as ya think, Stanford. I couldn't bring myself to help him and -" His voice broke. "They came for 'im."

"Who's - they?" Ford asked uneasily. Somehow, he knew that this was a question he did not particularly want an answer to. But he - had to know.

There was no reply.

"Fiddleford, please. Stanley's gone missing, and I have no idea where he could have gone. That's - part of the reason why I came," Ford admitted. "You're the only one who can help me, Fiddleford. A clue, maybe something he said - "

"They're what I saw on the other side," Fiddleford said finally. "...Why I tried to erase my memories."

That did not mean much to Stanford, who had never known exactly what his partner had saw in his brief glimpse of the other side of the portal. What he knew, however, was that the pieces were not lining up.

"I don't understand," Ford said slowly, finally finding his voice. "But Stan didn't… he doesn't even know about -"

There was a pitying look in Fiddleford's eyes. "Stanford," he said quietly. "Your brother is not what he seems."

* * *

Gravity Falls, March, 1982

After the disastrous talk in Greasy's Diner, Stan had done his best to refrain from asking Fidds anything that might set him off again. He already knew what he needed to do to get Ford back. Everything else - end of the world, demonic muses, yadda yadda - was just extra.

Besides, the other man seemed to be doing enough damage to himself without Stan asking any uncomfortable questions. Whether it was drugs or drink or - something else, Fiddleford had been acting increasingly weird over the course of the past month. It was a subtle thing - some occasional, unprompted, nervous movement of his hands, a few strange outbursts in the middle of an otherwise normal conversation.

If he didn't know better, Stan would've told himself that Fiddleford wasn't the type of person to mess himself up like that. But years on the streets had taught him that there was no 'type of person' that got involved with this kind of thing. Anyone could, anyone would - provided that something bad enough drove them to it.

And with the haunted way that Fidds looked at the contents of Ford's weird pyramid fetish room, or whatever the hell that was, Stan had some inkling as to what it was.

Problem was, how was he supposed to bring up a topic like - that? On one hand, even with a completely pragmatic point of view, letting Fiddleford continue his downward spiral wasn't going to do any good for anyone. On the other… any mention of Ford's old demon buddy - or the thing in Stan's dreams - could very well send the man running for the hills.

But as it turned out, that decision wasn't Stan's to make.

"Stanley, I understand if this is a - sensitive topic but," Fiddleford said a bit nervously, "I - think it will be helpful if you can tell me a bit more about how Stanford was sent through the portal. "

Stan froze in his step, lowering the bundle of wires he had been carrying. It had been weeks since the engineer had started coming over nights to work in Ford's old lab, and really, he should just be surprised that it had taken this long for Fidds to ask, but -

"Uh, yeah," he blurted quickly. "Sure, it's no problem - 'course not… I mean, why would I have a problem with that? Hah!"

Fiddleford stared at him blankly. "Is - there something wrong, Stanley?"

"I'm not being suspicious," Stan said, and immediately regretted it.

"...Of course, I don't - mean to pry, and I understand that you and Stanford had a complicated relationship. But knowing just the mechanics of how the accident occurred, how the portal malfunctioned…" Fiddleford shrugged. "I would know what not to do, at the very least."

Stan blanched. The option of continuing his previous lie about lab accidents was quickly considered and discarded - he sure as hell didn't want to admit, to his brother's boyfriend especially, that he had been the one to push Ford in. That it had been his fault. But if pretending to be innocent meant giving up his brother's life - then, it was hardly a choice.

"...I, uh, might have told a teensy little - not a lie, just a… stretching of the truth, really," Stan stammered. "...About the accident… it wasn't -completely an accident. I mean, neither of us expected it to happen, but - I, uh, should probably start from the beginning."

"...I think that would be best, Stanley."

"Ford sent me a postcard, tellin' me to come up to Oregon. I… did. But when I got there - he was actin' crazy. Almost shot me in the face with acrossbow, shoutin' about how I was going to steal his eyes." Stan dragged a hand through his hair in nervousness. "...Turns out he wanted me to hide that journal of his. And, uh… we started arguing. And then punches were being thrown, and somehow the portal turned itself on, and -"

"And Stanford was sucked in?" Fiddleford asked.

"I pushed him in," Stan said blankly. The other man tensed, something hard in his eyes, but Stan kept going. "It was my fault, Fidds. He - well, he burned me. Accidentally. And, God, it hurt, and I wasn't thinking, and I just shoved his damn book at him - I didn't know it was going to - "

"So you're saying that you and Stanford fought," Fiddleford cut in. "That's how he got sucked up by that thing."

"...Yeah."

"Well, I can't say I see a lie here. That certainly sounds like a lab accident to me." The man closed his notebook with finality. "Stanley, you have to understand - I helped build that portal. There are dozens of safeguards built into that thing - I know, because I forced Stanford to add them in. There's undoubtedly something… peculiar about the device turning itself on, but -"

He shook his head. "That is beside the point. What I am hearing here, Stanley, is that the two of you both did something - and I'll be honest here, something as colossally idiotic as get in a brawl, next to an untested gateway with effects of anti-gravity… and an accident happened. That was all. Honestly," Fiddleford continued, muttering to himself, "I knew Stanford's grasp of laboratory safety procedures were shakey at best, but…"

"Uh," Stan managed, somewhat unintelligibly. "...I, er." Any words of gratitude remained in his throat, though maybe it was better he didn't manage to voice it.

"Though… I am a bit concerned about that - burn you mentioned?" Fiddleford mused.

"There was a weird symbol on the side of that console there - exposed hot metal and all that." Stan grimaced. "Ford… might have kicked me onto it. Hope ya don't mind that I covered it up… Not exactly something I want to see, uh, ever." Hell, he still couldn't force himself to fry bacon.

"A - weird symbol?" Fiddleford paused. "I would like to take a look at it, if you don't mind. If there was an exposed brand anywhere inside of this lab, it certainly wasn't there when I worked here."

"It's right on the back of my shoulder - gimme a sec." Stan reached backwards, pulling the fabric of his undershirt aside. "You see it, Fidds?"

Fiddleford dropped his pen. "...Does it look familiar?" Stan turned his head. "And, uh, I know you're not a medical doctor or anythin', but it's kind of a weird color for a burn, right? I don't think I've ever -"

"Stanley…"

He blinked. "Yeah, that's my name. What - What's wrong?" Stan turned around quickly, only for Fiddleford to cringe back. "...Hey, if it's bad, just tell me, alright? I got enough cash to find a doctor if I need it."

"...That's been on you ever since Stanford went into th' portal?" The other man asked quietly, eyes fixated on the spot on the back of Stan's shoulder, as if it would attack him.

"That's what I said. But Ford - well, both of us were pretty caught up in yellin' at each other and all, and he didn't know that thing was on the side of the console." Stan shrugged helplessly. "It wasn't his fault -"

"...Dreams," Fiddleford croaked.

"Uh, what?"

"Have you -" The man made an odd, spastic gesture with his hands. " - had any. Since then."

...Alnight, so maybe he should be the one backing away here, not Fidds.

"Well, I mean…" Stan shrugged somewhat non-commitably, trying to hide his confusion. Somehow, he knew that mentioning specifics was probably not a good idea. "Some, sure. I mean, doesn't everyone? Look, Fidds, I don't know what exactly's messin' with your senses right now, but… you trust me, don'tcha?"

The look Fiddleford gave him was not exactly encouraging. Stan relented. "...Just gimme some idea of what's goin' on here, would ya?"

"...Dreams were how Stanford first made contact with that demon," the man said dully. "Back in college, he couldn't sleep for more than a handful of hours a night, at best. Then in Gravity Falls, he was sleepin' away entire days and makin' excuses about doin' his best thinking in his subconscious. Soon enough, he was walkin' around shouting about his cells dying and fish swimmin' up the urethra."

Stan snorted. "Fidds, I wish I was sleepin' entire days. Hell, I don't even remember the last time I got a decent night of sleep."

"Then, you have - had dreams."

...Shit. "Well... yeah. I mean," he composed himself, trying to choose his words carefully. "Sure, some were weird, but look - I've had weirder dreams after late-night quesadillas, for God's sake."

Fiddleford's face was ashen. "Did you say yes?"

"Huh?"

"Stanley, I asked ya," he swallowed, "did ya agree to anythin'?"

Oh.

"...Is this what this is about?" Stan almost felt like laughing. Honestly, what kind of demon would want to make some kind of deal with a guy like Stan Pines? Ford was a genius, a regular ol' poindexter, so that was understandable at least.

But Stan… "Alright, even if some demon is tryin' t' talk to me in my sleep… Fidds, look at me. Do I look like someone who would make a deal with the devil? Hell, do I look like someone the devil would want to make a deal with?" Stan, on the other hand, was just a conman and a convict - a dime a dozen in these parts.

In any parts.

None of Fiddleford's anxiousness dissipated. "Yes," he said instead, eyes narrowing.

"...Seriously? Come on, I was askin' that as a joke -"

"If they told ya they could save yer brother, ya would." The man's stare could burn holes in paper.

"Fidds, I -" Stan laughed, maybe a bit weakly, but there was nothing funny about the situation. He walked forward a few steps towards the cowering Fiddleford, both of his hands still held up in surrender. "You know that - that I wouldn't." His protests sounded lame to even his own ears.

"Fiddleford, I swear to God, I haven't been makin' any deals. Tell ya the truth, I have been seein' some - green-eyed spookums, maybe, but unless ya count some cursing on my part, there haven't been any talkin' involved -"

He froze in place the minute the muzzle, for lack of a better word, of Fiddleford's lightbulb-gun leveled itself directly at his face. "Green-eyed - ?" The man choked out, eyes dilating, his hands clenching on the handle of the - whatever it was.

Maybe a few weeks ago, when Stan had known nothing about the man before him, he would have been tempted to just - walk forward the last few steps, harmless looking toy gun or not. But having seen the engineer's work, Stan knew that he did not want to be shot by this thing. Knowing Fiddleford and his penchant for obliviously dangerous inventions, if he had deliberately made this to hurt… harmless was the last thing this was.

"Put it down, Fiddleford," he said through gritted teeth. "Come on, we're friends, aren't we?"

"It's because we're friends that I have to -" Fiddleford broke off, shaking. "Stanley, you've got to understand - this is for your own good -"

"No, I don't understand," Stan growled. "At least tell me why you want t' shoot me before you do it, yeah?" Shit, shit, shit. How the hell was he supposed to get out of this situation? He was at point-blank range - dodging was out of the question. And while Fiddleford was wiry, he was hardlyweak - "Or hell, tell me what I can do so you won't have to shoot me. That would help a whole lot, ya know," he finished, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

"Leave Gravity Falls," Fiddleford said without hesitation. "Destroy the portal. Forget about Stanford, and -" He gestured his device towards Stan's shoulder. "Break that sigil."

"I - I thought we went over this weeks ago, Fidds," Stan stammered, brushing aside the fluff for the important bit in there - forget about Stanford? "I'm not giving up on my brother. You - agreed with me on this, remember? You said -"

"That was before I knew they were already here, Stanley!" The other man hissed, eyes wild. "If the portal is opened now, then they'll have apermanent anchor in this base of reality. And it is simply a matter of time before they find an alternative - "

"We - can deal with that after Ford's back! He'll think of somethin' -"

"No, he will not," Fiddleford said with a note of finality. "Stanley - give up. I want him back too, but I can't -" He swallowed down his justifications. "...For the sake of the world, for your sanity, for your humanity - Stanley, give up now."

There was only one reply that Stan could give to that. "Then, I guess ya better shoot me." His voice was grim. "Because I can't give up on him. And - I thought you of all people could understand that, Fidds."

"Please don't make this harder than it is, Stanley."

"Yeah?" Stan demanded, trying to sound braver than he actually was. Oh, hell, if he was going to get shot by that thing either way… he didn't wantto hurt the guy, but - "Trust me, I want to make it a lot harder for you than ya want it to be."

He lunged forward, a hand outstretched to knock the lightbulb gun out of Fiddleford's grasp like he did during their initial meeting, except -

The man sidestepped him at the last moment, a matter of milliseconds, and Stan heard rather than saw him pull the trigger - a sudden, final click.

Stan stared, expression frozen in wide-eyed fear, as electricity coursed into the bulb of the gun, the beginning of some kind of light beam building at its end - and just beyond that, Fiddleford's tearful eyes behind his cracked glasses.

T-That's right, he suddenly thought vehemently, glaring back despite the cold crawl of panic as the light grew brighter, brighter, brighter. Let him see -

Fiddleford's hands jerked to the right.

A bright beam of some kind of energy flew past Stan, a millimeter to the side of his ear, and before he could react, he heard it hit the machinery behind him.

The portal behind him. Stan paled.

Oh shit.

It might have been a terrible decision, given the man who wanted to shoot him just a few feet in front of him. But then Stan saw the smoking console, electricity crackling over exposed wires, and his own well-being was suddenly the last thing on his mind.

There was the groan of metal, and the lights flickered suddenly. Stan whipped around, realization blossoming on his face. "Fidds -"

The man stared back at him, a look of dim surprise on his face. A second later, it turned into an expression of sheer panic, and Fiddleford let out an odd mixture of a choke and a whine. He dropped onto - all fours (what the hell) and scampered backwards like a scared animal. He gave Stan a look of horror, his eyes glazed and unfamiliar.

Stan cursed, already knowing what was coming but still taking the one futile step forward. "Don't -"

Fiddleford ran for it, moving surprisingly quickly for a guy on his hands and feet, and Stan had only taken another two steps forward when the lights went out and the lab was plunged into pitch black darkness. After that... he couldn't even see his own hand in front of his face, let alone a little guy like Fidds.

Distantly, he heard the sound of the elevator ascending.

It took ten minutes for Stan to finally make his way up from the lab, by which time Fiddleford was nowhere to be see. He sucked in a breath and kicked the wooden wall of Ford's cabin in frustration.

Great. The side-effects of whatever Fidds was using sure picked a great time to act up. With the guy in the state he was, it probably wasn't a good idea either for him to just go runnin' around in the woods, willy-nilly. Stan had been the one to give Fiddleford a ride to the Shack, since the man adamantly refused to drive for some reason.

Then he saw, halfway through his mental ramblings -

There, a flash of movement through the open window, in the bushes just beyond where his El Diablo was parked.

Stan swore again, as colorfully as he could make it, but it came out stunned and dibelieving and - hopeful. Without a single word more, he yanked on his red jacket and ran outside.

"Fidds!" He shouted, scanning his surroundings. It was - incredibly dark, almost unnaturally so, but Stan ignored his instincts shouting at him to go back inside.

He didn't even know where Fiddleford lived, and he had an inkling that he wouldn't be seeing the man for a long time if he left him to make contact. Maybe ever. "Fiddleford!"

Stan made his way to his car, swearing yet again as he tried to unlock his door without being able to see - anything, really. It didn't help that his right foot was soaked - there was a puddle on the ground right next to the El Diablo, which he unfortunately only noticed after stepping in the oddly warm liquid.

He jumped inside and slammed the door, immediately shifting into reverse and backing out of the makeshift driveway. Stan knew his car. He had done 70 miles an hour on the winding Rocky Mountain paths with his El Diablo, Carla screaming and laughing at his side.

This, was nothing.

Stan kept the window open as he drove, eyes narrowed against the cold Oregon winds as he scanned the road for movement. Fidds couldn't have gone far, really, and the forest on either side was rapidly becoming a blur of dark green. Stan was driving a bit faster than necessary, hell, a bit faster than he initially intended - maybe the El Diablo needed a tune-up.

He stepped down on the brake, and - paused.

Stan tried again, but there was no use. The pedal was going down too easily, and Stan was still going too fast.

He looked down in a kind of frozen disbelief, mouth suddenly, suffocatingly dry. The dim light of the car made the fluid on his boot shine with an oily sheen.

The strange men hanging around the diner, the movement near his car - the puzzle pieces clicked together to form a picture that sent a jolt of strangely dull dismay through his body.

Oh, hell.

It took everything he had to straighten his neck against the momentum of the car and look up. Despite the darkness of the night Stan could make out the rapidly approaching pines through his windshield - and the turn just ahead that he could not make. Not at these speeds.

In the split-second before impact, Stan saw green.


End file.
